Nightshade Genus: The Haunting of Foxworth Hall
by branWenNsstonesxX
Summary: Who was Malcolm's mother? Why had she left him so young and vulnerable? What secrets did she leave in her wake? That's what one young lady is determined to unearth. But what unspeakable evil lurks within the dust covered volumes of days long past?
1. IntroductionDescent

All Dollanganger Saga names, settings, and story belongs to V.C. Andrews. Contains spoilers.

Introduction and note to the reader

This story was begun several years ago, when I wrote under my old pename of missusXwicked. I wrote only the first chapter, and intended to write more, but life got in the way as it often does. I was in college, and doing poorly, mostly because I wanted to hang out with my friends and new boyfriend. So this particular story fell to the wayside, like all of my stories did, except Earth and Sea which I continued as long as I could until something devastating and unexpected happened. My laptop crashed and I went on quite an extraordianary adventure which I will probably write about someday. Now I'm older, wiser, and without a steady paycheck. I have a new laptop and unlimited hours in which to write. I decided to pick up where I left off, after rereading Seeds of Yesterday, which this story may flow into if you like it. It might flow into it regardless, for it's the longest I've written for fanfiction and I've grown attached to my alter ego, Marceline.

I came up with this story while reading Garden of Shadows (again). I recently found out that GoS was written after V.C. Andrews died by a ghost writer, which is why I assume some things don't add up, however it is still very good. While writing this fanfic, I was a little unsure of the timeline, but after doing a little research, I have set it in the summer of 1997, though I considered moving up the timeframe to a later (more relatable) date. However I decided it would take away from the authenticity of the story, and left it as it was. If there are any discrepencies with the timeline, or storyflow, I apologize. I did the best I could. There are a few other changes I made, such as, the books. In my story Cathy has already written and published two books, telling her tale. Olivia's memoir has been discovered as well. Instead of travelling directly to Europe, Joel first traversed down the East Coast. Stuff like that. Little things, though I tried to keep as much original as I could.

I based my story on two lines in Garden of Shadows, quoted from Malcom Foxworth:

"He saw her crossing a street in Charlottesville, stopped his carriage, and began a conversation with her. Without even knowing her family background!"

Yes, what _was_ Corinne's family background?

"The guile of women! It wouldn't have surprised me to learn that she had planned crossing that street at just that time, knowing he was coming. He said she smiled up at him so warmly, he had to stop the carriage."

What if she _had_ planned it? Why would she do such a thing? I suppose the simplest explanation would be money, but I am not a simple person. And I read a good deal of Stephen King.

* * *

Book 1: Into the Shadows

"Home is behind; The world ahead.

And there are many paths to tread.

Through shadow,

To the edge of night.

Until the stars are all alight.

Mist and shadow,

Cloud and shade.

All shall fade.

All shall fade."

~Pippins' Song, Lord of the Rings

The Virginia rain was pouring down in sheets, as I looked out the window of the car. Adrian lay sleeping comfortably next to me, and Patrick was dozing in shotgun but I was far too excited to sleep.

Adrian, Patrick and I were a team of paranormal investigators from the Institute of Occult Research in Salem. We were often called on by various churches to investigate and confirm cases before they sent an exorcist. This particular case, held much intrigue and interest for me, which my colleagues knew nothing about. I hoped to keep it that way for it was a little strange. It seems prudent now to begin this story with that story.

Growing up in the swamps of Louisiana you see and hear many strange and eerie things. Tales of vampires, voodoo curses, and plain old murder are some of them. My grandmother was herself a bit spooky, the way her dark eyes seemed to see right through your flesh into your soul, the way she would stare out at the pouring rain like she had lived through all the ages of the world and this was the billionth rain she saw, and the slow methodic way she laid the brick dust down to ward off those who meant us harm. I was often afraid of her though she loved me well, and the reason for that I still couldn't tell you. Her hard face looming above me when I did something I shouldn't have still haunts me. She radiated the power, the strength, and the pain that the black women of her generation harbored, and I suppose I felt intimidated by it.

She had many habits and methods and rituals for everything in her life, but the one thing that intrigued me more than anything else was her apparent obsession with the society sections of every newspaper she laid her hands on. To be specific, it was the infamous Foxworths who seemed to hold her so enraptured. She sat in the humid heat clipping the articles about them with a long pair of sowing scissors and pasting them into her makeshift scrapbook, that she still has to this day. My mother asked about it only once, she said, and firmly told me to never mention it to her, but to leave her be when she was a-clippin. I heeded her warning (which I seldom did when I was young) and just stared at the TV when my Grandmother sat in her rocking chair with the newspaper. I stole glimpses at her from time to time when I dared, and the look on her face is one burned into the walls of my memory. Her dark eyes burned with some fierce wild emotion that was difficult to place. Anger? Determination? Hatred? Perhaps some combination of all three .

One blistering summer day when I was only seven I wandered into the sitting room where my grandmother had her sleeves rolled up and was shelling peas for dinner. My mother was in the kitchen overseeing the boiling pot on the stove. I looked at my mother; slender, light skinned and with eyes as blue as the sky. Just like mine. I looked at my grandmother with her dark, and gnarled hands, and her eyes so brown, they were almost black.

"Mamaw?" I asked.

"What is it child?" she responded in her usual slow and soulful tone without looking up,

"Why does mamma and me have blue eyes and light skin when you got brown ones and dark skin?"

Slowly she lifted her head, the knife in her hands was quite still. She looked at me with that deep, penetrating stare I mentioned.

For a long time, she said nothing. The pot in the kitchen was beginning to boil over, because my mother was staring in at us. Finally,

" Because your mommas father was a white man. And your father was Brazilian."

"You was married to a white man Mamaw?!" I exclaimed, for the idea was so strange to me.

She looked at me for a moment as though she quite wanted to slap me, and I grew afraid. But she merely turned toward my mother shouting,

"Why aint you watchin' that pot gal?!" and she laid down the knife and went into the kitchen.

I already knew part of my childhood mystery. My mother was thirty five years old when she had me, still beautiful, but no spring chicken. However, she maintained that my swinging Brazilian father left her because of her skin color. I remember him clearly even though he left when I was only five. He used to enthrall me with ghost stories, told in his funny accent. I missed him terribly when he went away but stopped asking my mother about him eventually.

Riding along in the sleek black Cadillac that had been sent for us, I let my excitement build. The answers to my questions seemed to loom ever closer.

I will never forget how Foxworth Hall looked to me when we came up the long drive. The mammoth house was red brick, its trim stark white; I could smell the fresh paint. It was majestic, and even in its unfinished state it radiated a regal sense of purpose. However I couldn't help but feel a slight chill creep over my flesh as I looked into its large and empty windows. It was a strange and unsettling feeling. Just as the famous house in Amityville, there was an underlying malice about the place. Like the building was a great and terrible beast that lived to devour all who entered.

I shook Adrian awake and pointed to the house. He was irritable and drowsy, but when he caught sight of the house, he stiffened immediately.

Adrian was a tall, slender youth with elegant, dark chestnut hair and hazel eyes. His face was long and lean with cheekbones jutting out. All the girls swooned at the sight of him, batting eyelashes and twirling strands of hair, but he was not the sort to date causally. He was born with a Venetian veil (and for those of you who don't know what that is, it is a transparent layer of skin that some babies are born with over their face, and must be removed at birth. It is believed that such people have telepathic or psychic tendencies.) and he was a quiet, introverted sort of person.

"I don't like it." he finally said, turning to me.

I nodded in assent.

"You feel it too?" he asked.

"Feel what?" I queried.

"The sickness." he replied, looking back at the house. He referred to houses with malignant auras as being "sick".

As the car pulled to a stop in front of the grand front steps, I reached into the front seat and poked Patrick in the shoulder repeatedly until he started awake.

"That hurts, you know." he said, turning in his seat to look back at me.

"Wake up."

Patrick was an Englishman, taller and lankier than Adrian, with long, curly red hair and warm brown eyes. He wore a pair of horn rimmed glasses that he constantly had to keep pushing up his nose, and he always kept his back length hair swept into a messy ponytail. He was like an older brother to me and I found his little quirks endearing. Though he looked rather like a slob, he was very meticulous and calculating. He became a paranormal investigator because of an encounter he had as a boy in England, which he claimed "scared him out of his effing pants." And he was determined to provide scientific proof of life after death.

Patrick was our technological link. He was the one who played back all the tape recordings searching for EVPs (Electronic Voice Phenomena) and watched all the videos looking for orbs and other ghostly images. He was also in charge of our other equipment, such as the temperature readers (to seek out cold spots) and the electromagnetic sensors. He didn't really believe in the things and presences that Adrian sensed, but maintained the "If I can see it and I can touch it, then it's real." belief.

Patrick rubbed his eyes and stared up at the house.

"Ooh she's a big one, all right." he said, raising his camera to snap a picture. "Who's that?"

It was then that I noticed a stooped and withered old man standing underneath the portico surveying us through the downpour. His hands were clasped together neatly in front of him and he wore a look of utter seriousness, but if your house was so haunted that you were contacting churches for an exorcism, you wouldn't be too happy either.

Adrian still looked apprehensive. Quite suddenly, Patrick launched himself out into the pouring rain and headed to the back of the car to help the driver pull out our trunks. Adrian and I watched the two of them drag the cargo up the steps and onto the grand porch.

"Shall we?" I said to him.

"Into the belly of the beast." he replied gloomily.

We experienced a moment of chaos as we dashed through the rain with our jackets held high above our heads. Then we were under the roof of the porch, shaking ourselves semi dry. It got uncomfortably quiet for a moment, then the old man said,

"Follow me." He turned surprisingly swiftly for a man as old as he was, and led the way to the opaque double front doors. We each grabbed our perspective trunks and lugged them along with the driver heaving the trunk with our equipment in it.

With a gasp and a shove we made it inside the entrance hall. Breathing heavily, we all did a circle looking around the room. We all sighed, for the room truly was amazing. It was large and at one time must have looked splendid and immaculate. As it was, the walls were as white as the outside trim, and the whole place reeked of sawdust, paint, and other sterile scents. There were white sheets draped over all the furniture that was not destroyed, and the marble staircase leading to the upper floors looked older than the rest, and so out of place. The old man cleared his throat and gestured us through a door where we found an empty room thrown together with a beat up coffee table and hard wooden chairs. Even knowing almost nothing about the history of this house, we all felt, as we sat down that we were about to hear the story.

"Hello, and welcome to my childhood home," The old man began. "I am Joel Foxworth, the appointed caretaker of Foxworth Hall."

Patrick was quick on the uptake.

"Patrick Durwood. Ah, Mr. Foxworth, who appointed you caretaker?"

"Bartholomew Foxworth, my great nephew, is the one to whom the house legally belongs. My dear sister Corrine Foxworth Winslow left it to him."

Patrick scribbled in his notebook. I was amazed at how fast he was, I hadn't even seen him take it out.

"These are my colleagues, Adrian Ashford, and Marceline Deboreau. Now when-?"

"-Deboreau…is it French?" Foxworth cut Patrick off, and stared directly at me.

"Yes it is."

"I detect a slight accent…you're from Massachusetts?"

"Well, no, I was born in Louisiana, but I've been living up north since I was 17. So I suppose my accent is a little muddled."

His lips hardened a bit and he said nothing more.

"Ahem, yes, well…Mr. Foxworth, when did these paranormal activities begin?" Patrick had an impatient edge to his voice now.

"Paranormal? I'm sorry. I'm an old man, I don't understand this modern language, son."

"Ghosts, my good man, when did you start seeing the ghosts?"

"I haven't seen any ghosts. The workers were the ones who complained of ghosts."

"The workers…?"

"The workers my great nephew hired to do extensive remodeling and interior design. He's tried several companies, all of whom worked for a short period here, and no matter how much money he offered them, they would not come back."

"And they were the ones who complained of seeing these apparitions here?"

"What apparitions?"

"Well my notes say there is a middle aged man, an old woman, two old men, a beautiful young woman, and a little boy."

"It must be so, though I haven't seen or heard of them."

"Where in the house do you reside, Mr. Foxworth?"

"Above the garage, in the servants quarters."

"May I ask why a family member of such seniority resides in servants quarters?"

"I've been a monk for the better part of my life, I don't indulge in grandeur and luxury. I am comfortable there."

"And ah, where is the owner of the house?"

"He is staying in Richmond."

"Okay, and where are the apparitions appearing in the house, according to the workers?"

"Well they are saying most of them come from the east wing, one in the south, and another in the north."

"All right, thank you very much, Sir. You've been most helpful, and we'll get to the bottom of this as soon as possible."

"I have no doubts." Foxworth smiled.

He seemed harmless enough but there was something about him that, like the rest of the house bordered on the strange side.

"You must be tired. I will escort you to your lodgings now, right this way."

We followed him wearily to the south wing where we'd be staying. He showed Adrian to his room first, then Patrick, and finally, I found myself wandering the long, dim halls with the old man. He said nothing but glanced back at me peculiarly from time to time. Eventually, we came to a fine set of double doors raised high on three marble steps. Once again, I couldn't help but let a sigh of wonder escape my throat as I looked at this amazing room-this Swan Room. It was perfectly catered to a woman's tastes. With it's thick mauve carpet and violet, pink, and white draperies. Even unfurnished it reeked of femininity and decadent splendor. This was far grander than what he'd chosen for the boys. The paint fumes were strong, but it didn't take away from the splendor. Only I wondered the reason for the special treatment.

"It's incredible, Mr. Foxworth." I said turning to him.

He seemed to study me for a moment before replying,

"I thought it might please your tastes."

He had his faint smile back on and it unsettled me slightly.

"You may sleep now. Your luggage should be here by the time you get up. Dinner will be served at six thirty."

"Thank you Mr. Foxworth."

He shuffled out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Even through my excitement, I fell drowsily onto the oval mattress with it's satin sheets. Without pulling the covers over myself, I was asleep almost immediately.

"Corrrine…..Corrrrine…."

My eyes snapped open, and I wondered where I was. I sat up quickly, and slowly came back to reality. I was in what must have been the bedroom for the lady of the house. Who had been whispering just then? It was definitely a masculine voice, I decided. Who was Corrine? Something pulled on my memory…Oh yes….Corrine was the name of Joel Foxworths' sister. She must be dead, to have left her grandson a house. That was all the information I had at the moment, I must remember to ask Patrick for a tape recorder to see if it would pick up any EVPs in the room.

I rose slowly from the mattress that must have required custom sheets and stretched my arms wide. The light outside hadn't changed a bit, it still rained on. I looked at my watch and saw that it was ten after six. I heaved my trunk onto the bed, and opened it, looking for a change of clothes. I pulled out a tight black sweater and a pair of snug jeans. After putting them on, I looked for a mirror, And found a full length mounted to the wall in the bathroom. I studied my reflection in it.

The long years of mixing with other races had bred out the crinkly black fuzz, and my hair was a mop of shining ebony waves, but I always wanted it even straighter. So every day, I'd blow it out straight. I had it cut short, it stopped just above my shoulders. I'd given myself bangs the year before. My twenty-one year old skin was the color of coffee with far too much milk added. I had a slight, tall build like my mother, five foot six, with wide hips and large breasts. Too large I thought sometimes. And of course, the deep cerulean eyes of my mother. I smiled at my tattoos, just one visible on my hand, though underneath the sweater there were many more. I don't know why my reflection intrigued me so. Ordinarily I wasn't concerned with my appearance, though many people had called me beautiful. Suddenly I wanted to know if I looked good. I looked around the finished bathroom which was decadent and flowered. I suppose I felt I needed to conform to the splendor and beauty of the room. There was no time to mull this new feeling over further, because I had to go down for dinner.

I had little difficulty finding may way back down to the entrance hall, for I'd always had a good sense of direction. I met Adrian in one of the long, meandering corridors. He was standing quite still, staring in the direction of the north wing.

"Hey!" I said. He jumped comically and I giggled at him. He looked round at me and rolled his eyes.

"I should have known it was you." he said. "Nobody else is ever so bored with life that they need to play stupid pranks on people."

"You call that a prank?" I said, throwing my arm around his shoulder and steering him down the stairs. "I'll show you a real prank sometime."

He groaned.

"What were you looking at anyway?" I asked him.

"There's definitely something in that wing."

"Man, you two won't ever let up with the ghost stuff. It's all business to you."

"Well that's why we're here isn't it?"

"Yeah but come on, look at this place, nicer than any hotel, even if half of it's still being built. I'm glad we decided to live in this time."

He stopped on the stairs and looked at me, shocked.

"You're not serious."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"This place…is awful. Even without my gifts I could have felt it. The enmity that resides in this house is palpable. Don't pretend like you don't feel it, I know you do."

As he spoke, the light that streamed into the entrance hall seemed to grow a shade darker, and the temperature dropped a degree or two. He stared at me hard, and I put my arms around my shoulders. Something in my expression must have touched him for he suddenly put his hand on mine.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be that way. But face it, something's wrong here."

"I know. I felt it too. I guess I'm avoiding acknowledging it."

He smiled in a sweet way, and we looked at each other for a long moment.

"Ah sorry to interrupt, boys and girls…" said a voice from the top of the stairs. Patrick was looking down at us with interest.

Adrian snatched his hand away and I let my arms drop. Patrick came down the stairs, grinning at Adrian a little too understandingly. Adrian looked away defiantly. And I was already at the bottom, with my head bowed to hide the flush that had crept up my cheeks.

Foxworth emerged suddenly from a door and gestured us wordlessly through it. We were led down yet another gaping corridor, this one unpainted, showing drywall, to the dining room. Before we entered, however Joel turned to us and said,

"The master of the house has come to oversee your doings, and that you don't steal anything. He expected an exorcist, not you, so do not expect kindness from him."

At these words, I wondered what rich tyrant would be waiting for us. I pictured a hard faced, middle aged business tycoon. I was in for a bit of a rude shock as you may know.

Bartholomew Foxworth was almost unfairly handsome, with strong muscular shoulders and a perfect amount of tan. However, he had a cold expression that inhibited his nice features. He looked to be in his early twenties, around the same age as the rest of us, but to me, he seemed to be carrying a heaviness on his broad shoulders. The type of burden usually reserved for a much older person. He looked at each of us; scrutinizing. Patrick looked haughtily and directly back at him, so he quickly moved his gaze to Adrian, who looked back with a perfectly inscrutable expression. Bartholomew narrowed his eyes at this and flicked his gaze back and fourth between each of Adrian's eyes, as if hoping to catch one of them lying. Finally satisfied, he turned to me. His dark eyes lingered on mine for a long moment, and then slowly they traveled down to the rest of me. His expression seemed to soften. I didn't like that, and crossed my arms over my chest, barring myself against him.

"Please, sit." he said in a frosty voice obviously noticing my body language.

We sat three in a row, on one side of a long fine oak table. The rest of the room was bare and the odor of primer seeped into our nostrils. My allergies are going to go crazy, I thought.

"So…" he began. "I send for an exorcist, so that the superstitious contractors will do the job I'm paying them to do, and I get investigated…How infuriating."

"Well we're not investigating you, Mr. Foxworth, we're investigating the claims of activity to determine if an exorcist is needed."

Patrick refuses to be intimidated, I thought. It endeared him even more to me. But Bartholomew was not amused.

"Nonetheless, you are uninvited guests! How long are you going to be poking around?" his words bit into us like knives and his eyes flared angrily.

Patrick was ever cool under the Master's blazing stare, his voice rose only slightly.

"As long as It takes to confirm or deny these claims, Mr. Foxworth."

Bartholomew seemed to be taken aback by his firmness. He was quiet for a moment, then opened his mouth to say something more when Joel returned with the dinner tray stacked with boxes of take out. He closed his mouth and said nothing else for the rest of the meal.

When everyone was finished, Patrick pulled his notebook out and looked pointedly at Bartholomew. When he said nothing, Patrick queried,

"Have you personally seen or heard anything to support these claims Mr. Foxworth?"

"Certainly not. What is it you plan to do, Mr. Durwood? Oh, yes-" He added at the look on Patrick's face. "-My uncle told me all about you."

"Ah well, the first thing we do is obtain the history of the house and family, as far back as we can trace. That lets us know what to look for, and then we go round to the trouble spots and see what we're dealing with."

"Well you're dealing with ghosts for Christ's sake!" Bartholomew exclaimed impatiently.

At "Christ's sake" Joel Foxworth frowned. I guess he really was a monk, I thought.

"There are many kinds of spirits, Mr. Foxworth." Adrian spoke up. "There are earthbound souls, unable to rest for whatever reason. There are impressions of people that are left behind in times of great emotion or distress, and there are older and more evil things that hide in the deep places of old houses. This third one is what the exorcist would be needed to remove. That's what the church wants to confirm."

Bartholomew said nothing, only nodded and excused himself. The old Foxworth rose and began to take the trash away.

"I'm off," said Patrick. He stood up and left abruptly. Adrian looked at me, smiled, and he too, left.

The old Foxworth was shuffling out again when I called to him,

"Mr. Foxworth, sir. One moment."

He turned, smiling that queer smile again.

"What can I do for you, Ms. Deboreau?"

"Marceline, please."

He looked embarrassed at being asked to call me by my first name.

"Very well…Marceline?"

"As the team archivist, I'll be the one who needs whatever family history you can provide, I understand there was a fire and some documents were probably destroyed, but whatever you can give me will be fine I'm sure."

"I'll have the necessary documents to you in the morning."

"Thank you sir."

He left.

I returned upstairs to the south wing, the only one finished. As I passed Patrick's room I could hear his raised voice faintly ranting about something. I opened the door quietly and peered inside. I saw Patrick pulling things out of his equipment trunk, and shouting to Adrian, who was sitting on an incredibly expensive sofa, looking tired.

"Of all the pompous, flea bitten, pieces of yank trash I have ever come across, THAT is the one I may just kick the shit out of."

Adrian caught sight of me and rolled his eyes. Patrick let a string of mixed swearwords and idle threats escape his mouth.

"I'm glad to see you've become acquainted with the 'master of the house'." I said, laughing and entering the room.

Patrick sighed.

"The sooner we get to the bottom of this the better. I cannot stand it here already. They're both rich, arrogant bastards, even if the old cotter does live above the garage."

"Well your wish may come true yet. Let me get a tape recorder for my room."

"Really?" Patrick forgot his anger for a moment and looked interestedly at me.

"Yep. I heard someone whispering a name when I woke up today."

He reached into the trunk and found a small silver tape recorder for me, handing it to me enthusiastically.

"I hope something comes up. It'd be a great start."

"I know. All right, g'night guys."

"Night M."

"Night."

As I made my way back to my room, I felt the bold and tangible excitement that comes with this profession. A lot of people think we're wasting our time, and that the proof that we come up with can be explained away by convenient theories. Even though it'd be wonderful to find undeniable proof of existence after death, we don't enjoy what we do for that simple reason. We seek it out, because when you go to a horror movie, to one of those Halloween fun houses, or on haunted hayrides you go simply because it's fun to be scared. It's enlightening and electrifying to explore what waits beyond the grave. We in this profession live for that rush of adrenaline…

But what I was soon about to unearth from under the foundations of Foxworth Hall, would change the way I looked at the Other Side forever. For I would soon find out that some things never die.


	2. Horror Story

When I awoke the next day, my first reaction was one of disorientation.I had forgotten where I was and felt momentarily startled that it wasn't my apartment. I took in the luxuriant surroundings and remembered. Foxworth. The name came to mind. The rest began to follow. Bartholomew Foxworth; young, attractive, and with the disposition of a spoiled child who'd been denied a handful of candy. Joel Foxworth; old and shriveled, his eyes cloudy and blue. The ghosts that supposedly haunted their vast house.

I rose from the bed, feeling the silky sheets slip away.

The lavish room, with its pink and gold motif looked garish and irritating in the bright sunlight that came streaming in. I felt myself out of place in this tomb of days past when women were expected to adore pink and frills and softness. I had always preferred dark colors and themes, for they eccentuated my exotic features. And somehow I felt protected by them. So I wondered why I had been infatuated with the room the night before. I supposed even these ghastly colors and angelic theme looked nice at first because they were so very rich. But in the harsh sunlight they struck me in an ill manner. I felt sickened, in short, because a plain dark thing like me has no business in such a room. Nor wanted any. I decided to ask Joel Foxworth to grant me a different room. Something dark. Like me.

I dressed in a tee shirt and jeans, to distance myself further from the rooms' opressive softness and entered the hallway. As I passed Patricks room, I heard muffled voices. I opened the door and saw Patrick and Adrian sitting on the sofa hunched over a laptop screen, still in pajamas, talking excitedly.

"Look, look there it is!"

"I see it!"

"What is it?" I asked.

They looked at me.

"M, come here, we set up a laser grid in the east wing last night!" Patrick said.

"You got a hit?"

"Fucking right!"

I went to sit next to Adrian. On the screen was the end of an exposed hallway, with doorways on either side. On the back wall was a complex grid of green pinpricks of light.

"Now watch at full speed."

Patrick played the footage.

For a moment, there was nothing. Then a few of the lights went out in a row, straight from one doorway to the other. My heart began to pound. Patrick looked at me happily and clicked the mouse.

"Now at half speed."

The image was a simple grid once more. At half speed, the shape of the anomaly was difficult to make out. It still appeared as a strip of black. Patrick paused the image as the shape was in the middle of the wall between the two doors. I peered at it closely. It looked like a human head and shoulders. Presumably male, since there was no shadow of hair flowing behind.

"Hot damn!" I said.

"I know, this is a great start." Patrick looked incredibly proud. "Two hits and we haven't even begun yet. D'you have that recorder?"

"Yup."

I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to him.

"So, Mister Nostradamus, any idea who our new friend is?"

"Nostradamus wasn't psychic. He had premonitions." Adrian said without looking at me.

"I bet Nostradamus would answer my question."

Adrian leaned toward the computer screen.

"Young man, frantic, rushing." he said flatly.

"Died in the fire?"

"Possibly."

Patrick sighed. I could almost hear his brain shouting "Bollocks".

"Well, shall we adjorn to breakfast?" I said in a haughty voice.

"Yes, quite." Patrick replied, playing along. "Then we can meader to the stables to see my prize stallion Starlight, before we shove caviar up our arses."

We all burst out laughing, standing up.

We were still laughing and joking on the grand staircase, when suddenly Patrick stopped short, his smile fading. I turned and saw Bart Foxworth in the doorway leading to the dining room, barely concealing his annoyance.

"Honestly, you all behave like a bunch of teenagers. I have half a mind to fire you right now. From now on, breakfast is at eight sharp. If you're not on the bottom step by then, you won't eat. Some of us have places to be."

"I apologize, Mr. Foxworth." said Patrick in a formal voice. It was the same voice he used when speaking to our boss back in Salem.

"However, most of our work is done at night, therefore we will be sleeping during the day. So I suppose you'll be eating breakfast alone. We'd be happy to join you for lunch."

Barts' eyes flashed.

"Oh wonderful! How am I to supervise you if you'll be wandering my house at all hours? No, you'll have to do your _work_ during the day."

Patrick opened his mouth, but I rushed to him and said quietly,

"I'll handle it."

I approached Foxworth, and said,

"With all due respect sir, we find that it's best to investigate at night because its more likely that we'll find something. All evidence of the paranormal suggests that any entites are more prone to activity at night when all the hustle and bustle of the day has died down."

"No one lives here! There is no hustle and bustle! I don't see why-"

"Excuse me sir, but if it's an exorcist you really want, then it would be wise to allow us to do our jobs. Really, the less you hinder us, the faster we'll be out of your hair."

He opened his mouth furiously, but I interrupted him again.

"And if you're worried about us stealing something, well I suppose it would do to point out that we are not a bunch of underpaid workmen. We are professionals. Men of science, and students of the existential world. _Well paid_ students."

He clenched his lips together, clearly having difficulty finding some sort of counter argument, but my logic was undeniable.

"Fine!" he shouted, and he turned on his heel and stormed into the dining room.

Patrick and Adrian, who had been hanging back on the stairs, came down and stood next to me.

"I really hate that man." said Patrick.

"He _is_ a little wound up isn't he?" I said.

Patrick shook his head.

"Just think of him with fish eggs up his ass whenever you see him."

He and Adrian laughed as we all went into the dining room.

The young Foxworth sat with the business section obscuring his face and cigarette smoke billowing into the air around him. The old Foxworth was setting up plates of bacon, eggs, and toast on the table. I thought it was diplorable that that young man just sat idly by while his poor old uncle served him food.

Patrick and Adrian ate quickly making no effort toward conversation. When they were done, they told me they were going to go set up equipment for that night.

Sitting there with my food, the silent stale air of the room began to irritate me. The old Foxworth ate only a few bites of plain toast with no butter, and as he was getting up to clear the plates, I said to him,

"Mr. Foxworth, if I could have a moment?"

He sat down again.

"Those documents we spoke of yesterday?"

"Ah yes. I'll bring them to you after you finish, if you'll be so kind as to wait in here."

There was an raspy quality to his voice that I found unsettling, just as the day before, but I managed a nod.

He smiled in a way that I also did not like, and rose once more to clear the plates.

As he left the room, The young Foxworth lowered his paper slightly to peer at me.

"_Professionals_." He muttered scathingly. "More like some rediculous garage band."

I felt a twinge of some wild emotion in my chest. After a moment I realized it was anger. _He needs a colonic and fat joint, _I thought. He kept casting me annoyed glances, until he finally said,

"So! I have to ask, how do you expect anyone to respect what you do when you look like a rabble of hooligans? I mean look at _me_. Clean shaved, crisp suit, shoes shined. When people see me they think, 'Now theres a man I have to respect. Theres a man who matters.' When people look at you _scientists _they think 'Hide the silver!' ."

I put my fork down slowly, chewing my food.

"Are you suggesting that I look like a burgular?"

"I'm _suggesting _thatyou look like a bum! A slob! And you being a woman! Do you really think you look _attractive_ in those rags?"

I stared at him for a moment. Honestly I had never worked with anyone so narrow.

"Well, to be frank I don't care whether people respect me, or find me attractive."

"You look like a fucking man."

He sat up, proud, thinking he'd hurt me. I'll admit I was flabbergasted for a moment that someone of such standing would be so crass. But then I laughed.

"It's a good thing you're rich, otherwise you'd have gotten your lights knocked out by now if you talk to everyone this way. Anyway I don't give a damn what men find attractive or whether pompous assholes such as yourself respect me. I respect myself."

He stood up menacingly.

"I ought to kick you and your stupid friends out of here right now! How dare you speak to me in my own house that way!"

"How dare _you_, Mr. Foxworth! You insult my dear friends and femininity, scoff at our craft, and threaten us with termination once an hour! What do you expect, honestly? Well you listen here. We can go, we can leave right now and _laugh_ about it! But you need us don't you? If you ever want to finish your precious overbearing monstrous house before the decade is out, you do!"

"I can hire contractors for the day and send them home at night just as easily!"

"Then why haven't you done it?"

He picked up his coffee cup and threw it as hard as he could at the drywall, where it smashed and left an ugly brown stain. He shoved his chair back from the table and stomped away.

It was then that I saw the Old Foxworth standing in another doorway with something under his arm. He was as still as a cat watching a bug crawl across the window sil. He had seen the whole thing.

"I'm sorry sir." I said, and then I went and picked up the pieces of the coffee mug. I laid them on a napkin.

"It's quite all right. My nephew can be a bit boisterous." he said in his gravelly voice.

He came forward into the room, and laid the objects on the table in front of me. They were books.

I said, "These are the documents?" I picked one up. It had a cover with pictures of buttercups. I looked at it and realized.

"This is a novel." I said. "And so is this one. And this one is a manuscript. Perhaps you misunderstood me. I need family history-journals, memoirs, even tax records will do. I don't need a good read, Sir."

"Everything you need to know is in these books. They were written by members of my family and detail events for the last eighty years. You'll want to start with the manuscript."

I sighed and thanked him. He began to put the dishes and the smashed cup on a rolling serving tray when I mentioned that I would like a different room.

"I had the impression that you liked the room I selected for you."

"I do, I do, it's just...well, it's...too much."

"I understand." he said smiling.

His smile seemed warm but there was something underneath it. Something I couldn't place. Was it malice? Was it sarcasm? I didn't know.

In any event, he suggested a room and told me where I could find it.

The room, which had violet drapes and white patterned walls, wasn't exactly me, but much less obnoxious. I moved my things in, and tossed the books on a writing desk. I sat on a little couch, tired of these people already. I half hoped that arrogant, gold-plated jackass downstairs really _would_ fire us. I needed to relax.

I stuffed a towel from the bathroom under the door and took out a small wooden lock box from my travel case. I took my keys out of my purse and selected the smallest. Opening the box released the sweet and pungent odor of the cannabis I keep there. It really _was_ unproffesional of me to smoke on the job, and the young Foxworth would have shit bricks if he knew, but this was how I dealt with stress.

Half an hour later, I lay on the queen sized bed with sheer purple hangings, headphones on, drifting in a sea of euphoria. The windows were opened wide and a gentle breeze wafted in. As my mind was carried away on the melody of my favorite band, I heard a muffled tapping noise. I took my headphones off. It was someone knocking.

I jumped up, horrified, and hastily took out a can of air freshener. After spraying it in a circle, I said tentatively,

"Who is it?"

"It's the cops! We've got you surrounded! Surrender, you dirty hippie!"

Patrick.

I opened the door. He was grinning down at me.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. You naughty thing. What would you have done if it was the Master?" He wiggled a finger at me and walked into the room.

"I would have told him I was naked."

"Well don't do that! He'll come barreling in the door!" he grinned.

"Not likely. He told me I look like a man today."

Patrick lit a cigarette and leaned close.

"Oh, well, he must be gay."

I laughed.

"So how did you know I was smoking in here?" I asked. "You can't smell it, can you?"

"Not at all, I've taught you well. I just happen to know you."

I smiled at him.

"So I've got half a j. Would you care to smoke good sir knight?"

He bowed to me.

"Of course, my lady."

I shut the door.

About an hour later, he and I sat on the couch facing the open windows. It was originally facing the bed, but he and I had turned it.

"This is much better." Patrick said.

"I agree."

I had the curtains open and a little midmorning breeze was making the sheer white curtains blow inward. It was a lovely room, I thought. I liked this room much better. With the violet drapes pulled back, it came to me that purple and white are so pleasing when combined. Purple being of dreams and the midnight sky and white with its fresh pleasing candor.

Patrick turned to me.

"So, kittycat. What else did the blaggart say over his 8:30 am outburst?"

"He said that we look like a garage band."

"Well, Marcy and the Awful Scruffy Boys _is_ an alluring moniker."

I giggled.

"Oy let me tell you something miss, you are exceptionally beautiful, and most defnitely do not look like a boy."

I hugged him. Patrick was a decent guy.

"So where's A?" I asked.

He let out his breath.

"God, what _is_ it with you and _him_?"

"Not a damn thing." I said defensively.

He got down off the couch and planted himself between my legs, with his arms around my waist; elbows resting on my thighs.

"Come on, kittycat, go out with me."

"Patrick."

"Is it the hair? I can cut the hair."

"Patrick."

"I can dye the hair."

"Patrick."

"What? For you I burn, I pine, I perish." he said.

"You know what. I've told you."

He hung his head.

"You've just got out of it with Eric. You invested a lot of energy in him. You don't want to date anyone for a while."

"So whats the hang up?"

He looked at me pleadingly.

"I just know I would be good to you. You deserve to be treated like a sexy goddess, kittycat."

I pursed my lips.

"Okay, okay." He got up abruptly and became his usual roguish self.

"Well I've got to go miss. I have work to do. Farewell. Don't hurt yourself with that stuff."

I smiled apologetically at him. And then I said,

"I love your hair Patrick."

He smiled back over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

I began reading the books that night while Adrian and Patrick were making their rounds. And I couldn't stop until the following tuesday.


	3. Bart, Joel, and a pen

It was tuesday morning. As I turned the last page of Petals On the Wind, I came to the uncomfortable realization. It was all true. The burned and destroyed hallways were no accident, but the desperate act of a deranged woman. Believing she saw the ghost of her dead first husband, she wound up killing her second. Ever since I first began reading the chilling epic, I had questions. So many I couldn't even begin to describe them. The one at the forefront of my mind held the most weight. What madness, what horror had befallen this family? All of them, trapped in a vaccum of pain and misfortune, on the scale of a greek tradgedy. I was in a daze. Since I started reading the saga, I had barely emerged from my room, except at meals. I had been absorbed completely by the evil tale. If Foxworth Hall had been the maw of a gigantic beast when I first arrived, well now I felt the jaws had snapped shut on me. I couldn't leave now if I'd wanted to.

I shoved the book aside and got out of bed. Looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, it was obvious that I hadn't been myself for the last few days. I hadn't bathed since sunday, my hair was sticking up and waved again, my face was greasy, and my eyes had dark circles under them.

"What a monster." I said, disgusted.

I showered, dressed casually in my usual jeans and tee shirt, and twisted my hair up to take away some of my downcast look. I looked at myself in full length mirror. I could see how someone like Bart could think so little of me. With my pierced lip and tattoos peeking out from behind my clothes, I did look like I was in some sort of band. I smiled a little because, really, I considered that a compliment. I hammered it home with a pair of lace up black boots.

As I was tying the laces, I heard a soft knock.

"Come in." I said.

The door opened and Adrian peeked in.

"Hey, you look like you actually care today. The Foxworths want to see you."

I sighed, for this was what I had been dreading. Facing up to the people who I now felt I knew too personally. My curiosity might overtake my disgust. I might have to ask Joel how he had survived the alps. I might have to ask Bart how his grandmother had died. The fact that Corinne wasn't even Olivia's daughter would be horrid to bring up. The whole job seemed like a terrible mess now, something I just wanted to shut the door on.

"Whats wrong?"

He looked at me, eyes blazing. This strange boy from Maine always amazed me. He was special, was born special, and would always be special.

"I don't know." I said, shying away from his knowlege. "I think maybe we bit off more than we can chew."

He stared at me. He knew there was more, but I wasn't ready to tell him. Without taking his eyes off mine he said,

"You should see the evidence we've been collecting the past few nights."

I didn't want to do that either. I didn't want to see their faces or hear their voices now that I knew who they were.

"Yeah. Maybe later."

I gathered up the books and made for the door. He thrust his arm out and stopped me.

"I'm here. Whenever you're ready to tell me whats bothering you."

I met his fierce stare, admiring the grey-green ring around his irises. He tugged the books out of my arms and sent them cascading to the floor. Without taking his eyes away, he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me. It wasn't the first time.

* * *

The first time had been three months before, after I woke up one morning and found Eric's side of the closet empty. A simple note lay on our coffee table: "I can't." I had called Adrian.

I remember sitting on his couch, still in my pajamas, crying quietly into my cup of coffee. I remember his cat Pips laying against my feet. All I saw before me were my ghostly memories. Eric standing in our kitchen, telling me it was the best cookie he'd ever had. Eric walking through the door with his uniform on, sighing with relief. Eric standing behind me as I looked out the window one cold morning in february, when we were still in school, slipping his arms around my shoulders. Eric handing me a ring at the show. The music roared and the crowd was a great surging mass of bodies, yet at that moment I had felt like we were the only two people left in the world.

I'd looked down at my hand. The ring still glittered there. I burst forth in a slew of fresh sobs.

Adrian just sat with one arm around me, looking at my face with deep concern. He looked as if he might cry himself. He reached over and took a tissue from the rickety endtable; wiped my face. Then he gathered me up in his arms and held me. Through the tangled thicket that was my pain, I had the feeling that he would just go on holding me until I was no longer upset.

A few hours later we took a walk through the park. It was the middle of winter and icicles hung on all of the trees like glittering ornaments as if nature was preparing for a grand ball. The sun began to sink and cast the land in a lovely array of sparkling golds and whites with a hint of lavender sheen. Our noses were red and our breath rose in a thick mist as we walked, and not one word was said between us. We crossed the bridge overlooking the partially frozen creek when I stopped. I stared into the water swirling, and churning beneath the ice. I felt the emotion building.

I planted my feet apart, held on to the rampart and let out a single agonized cry that sent the birds skwaking and shrieking from the trees nearby. I tore the ring, my beautiful diamond; symbol of my love, off my finger and hurled it into the water. I sank to my knees in the fresh snow, and was quiet for a long time.

"Do you feel better?"

Adrian stood next to me.

"No." I croaked to his knees.

He sighed, and took my elbow. After a fashion, he succeeded in getting me to my feet. He turned me so that he could look me straight in the eye.

"You are elegant." he said.

He wrapped his arms around me and planted his icy lips on mine. I must say, I was so shocked I couldn't even begin to stuggle. And after a few moments...I found I didn't want to.

* * *

We stood in my violet room, and amid the desolate memories of this house, we were kissing again.

I stooped and picked up the books from the floor, my cheeks deeply flushed. He remained in front of me, staring at me thoughtfully, as if I were a surprising work of art. I straightened up and smiled at him.

I walked around him, but when I stepped through the open door I felt my heart jump in my chest. Joel Foxworth stood before me, with his strange eerie smile upon his crooked lips. I once again knew that he had seen the whole encounter. He leered toward me, and gently scooped the books from my numb fingers. I don't need to tell you that he frightened me. The things I knew about how he was raised only deepend my feelings of unease.

Adrian came up behind me and feeling his warmth steeled my heart a little. Joels eyes flicked to him and for an instant I saw something; a hostile glimmer. He turned away and said,

"Come."

We both began to walk down the hallway, but Joel whipped around and said to Adrian,

"Not you."

Adrian stood there. He was not prone to give any sign of his feelings, but he hesitated. His eyes glowed with a curious thing; it was power and protection and something else I couldn't say. Then it seemed to close itself up, like shutters over a window. He turned on his heel and went in the other direction.

Joel watched him for a moment, then continiued down the hallway. I trailed behind.

Soon we came upon a door. Joel creaked it open, and gestured me inside.

The room, like everything else in the house, was stark. There were no curtains over the windows, just plain white blinds, and the walls were bare. A fax machine stood on a round table, and two file cabinets were pushed against the wall. The only thing about the room that was not shabby and hastily thrown together was a fine mahogany desk, with all sorts of papers strewn across it; a computer and telephone resting on it's surface. Behind the desk, Bart Foxworth sat, his fingers interlaced.

He gestured to a chair.

I, of course had not forgotten his hateful words from a few days ago and regarded him coldly. I heard a scraping sound and saw Joel putting the books in one of the file cabinets and locking it with a small key. I sat in the hard wooden chair.

Bart looked as if what he had to say made him want to vomit in his throat, but with a glance at Joel, who looked down his long nose pointedly at him, he began,

"Miss Deboreau, I apologize for my outburst the other day."

I said nothing. He cleared his throat and went on,

"I hope that my insensitivity to you will not effect our business relationship."

He waited for me to respond.

Of course I knew he didn't mean a word of it. What I wanted to do was tell him so, and just what I thought of him. But I knew I couldn't. I'm sure I don't need to tell you why. A paranormal investigating team isn't called on long expensive journeys every other day.

"That's fine. I'm forgetting about it now."

He became smug again.

"Wonderful. Now my uncle has told me that he let you in on some of our most fiercely guarded secrets."

I nodded.

"Well you have to know that we can't have anybody blurting those secrets to any tabloids, newspapers, and such, right?"

"I wasn't aware that the lifestyles of the rich were big news anymore."

His expression hardened a little.

"It is to the people in my circle. The elite. Society. You know what that is don't you?"

I nodded again. I could feel my pulse beginning to rise.

"Well, anyway we have drawn up a confidentiality agreement. Feel free to look it over."

Joel handed me a stack of papers and a pen.

"It basically says that you will never expose what you've learned particularly where the dealings of Malcom Neal Foxworth are concerned, under penalty of law."

He looked at me expectantly.

"Wait a second, you mean to tell me that I can't discuss this..stuff.. even with my colleagues?"

"Yes. Not a soul."

I stared at him hard.

"And this has nothing to do with the fact that several members of your family conspired to murder four children? I can't believe you. I can't believe you're all content to bury that under the rug. It's no wonder you have restless spirits! I'm sure you're aware that murder cases never close. You could all be locked up for obstruction of justice."

They both stared at me. Poker faces.

"All right, I'll sign the damn paper on one condition. Make my colleagues sign confidentiality agreements too. In order to do my job I must colaborate with them on the physical evidence. As a side note; I think you two should think seriously about asking that child's forgiveness. If you don't, the spirit may never rest and you should both rot in Hell for that."

Joels' nose turned up as if the small pitiful soul of "devil's spawn" couldn't possibly threaten his entrance into Heaven. But Bart shifted guiltily as if he did feel a twinge of fear for their immortal souls. It was betrayed in his eyes and he nodded. Satisfied, I signed my name away.

I closed to door to the makeshift office, sighing heavily. The house began to press down on me, and everything seemed to sag down to the floor. There was work to be done.


	4. Searching

That evening as the sun began to set, I went to Patricks room.

He and Adrian stood over the equipment trunk, preparing to set out for the night.

"So you and M...what's going on there? What do you two talk about when you 'accidentally' find yourselves alone?"

Patrick sounded captious. I took it that he was still burning after my latest deflection of his advances.

"I keep telling you, nothing. We're friends."

There was a moment of silence while they rummaged. Then,

"You know, she sees you as a brotherly figure. If you keep at her, you'll lose her friendship." Adrian sounded impassive as usual.

Patrick let out his breath contemptuously at "brotherly".

"She'll change her mind, once she gets over Eric."

"It's been three months, and she's still hurting. But even if she wasn't, once she's made up her mind, there's no changing it. That's just how she is."

Patrick straightened up and looked sideways at Adrian.

"How would you know? Oh wait, that's right, she called _you_ when he dumped her."

He caught sight of me and flushed a brilliant shade of carnation pink.

"Hullo, M..." he said.

Adrian straightened up, and looked cautiously between Patrick and I.

I was content to pretend that nothing had happened. I smiled at them both. Patrick gave a pert grin, his petulant air replaced by his typical mischevious persona.

"Hey, listen, before you go out tonight, there's something I need to tell you." I said. "You might wanna sit down."

They put their instuments down and made their way over to the couch.

"I think we're about to hear the twisted tail behind that confidentiality agreement." Patrick said.

I nodded, and then I closed the door.

As I told the story, their expressions steadily became more grave. When I was finished, there was a long moment of silence. The sky was velvety black outside by then and the clock chimed ten p.m.

"Well you still tell a banging good story." Patrick said, attempting to break the tension. And true to his nature, it completely worked; I cracked a smile.

"Thanks." I said. "But seriously, what do you think?"

"I think they're all barking, to be honest. The whole lot of them."

I rolled my eyes and looked to Adrian imploringly for a serious assesment. Patrick noticed and before Adrian could answer, he said,

"Well maybe we can identify some of the images now."

I must have looked surprised, because Patrick smiled mysteriously and said,

"Oh, yes, there've been some images. Exellent clarity, too."

"On film..?" I asked, excited.

"Photograph."

Among our gadgets, we had several Nikon cameras, programmed to take a picture every ten seconds.

"Are they full body, or...?"

"So far just faces, but still very bloody exciting."

"You have to show me."

He stood up abruptly and gestured me over to the small table on which his laptop rested. Patrick was always very animated; you sensed movement about him even when he was sitting still. Adrian, by contrast was not nessecarily slow but there was something utterly smooth in his movements, every gesture seemed calculated, every step carefully thought out. Their quirks endeared them to me so. And as I apprieciated them, I felt a bite of guilt. I would hate to see them fight over me, and I knew I was going to make one of them angry in the end.

Patrick was clicking away. Adrian stood by motionlessly, lost in thought. I watched the images flash by at lightning speed. Finally,

"There you have it."

It was an image of a deserted hallway, with one door at the top of some stairs left slightly ajar. And peeking around the corner was the face of a little boy. He was misty and silvery but you could still tell he had been pale in life. His eyes were shadowed, but there was still innocence and curiosity in them.

"Cory." I said. I felt that heaviness threatening to overwhelm me again.

"Taken on the upper floor of the north wing." Patrick said grimly. "Well obviously, we have a residual haunting on our hands."

"I don't think so." Adrian said quietly.

His face was deadly serious.

Patrick turned around lazily and looked at him with one thick eyebrow raised.

"There's something strange at work here. I feel it in the house. It moves silently in and out of these peoples lives with devastating consequenses. It's odd because it doesn't feel like a demon. I've never felt anything like it. It's just...bad."

"Rubbish." Patrick muttered, turning away.

"Oh there's residual haunting here, no question, but something deeper is going on." He didn't sound defensive, just factual. He turned to me.

"Corinne. You have to find out everything you can about her."

"Corinne?" I said incredulously. "What else is there to know?"

"No. The _first_ Corinne."

I briefly recalled the voice in the swan room.

"Why?" I asked.

"She has something to do with this. Her departure obviously caused Malcolm's psychosis, which accounts for the initial suffering of the future generations. But there are other things, other anomalies, seemingly unfortunate innocuous events; the accidents, for example. So many accidents. Too many."

He looked at me darkly, intensely.

"Please trust me, Marceline. She's important. I know it."

"I believe you." I said frankly.

"Bollocks." Patrick said, shaking his head.

* * *

The next day I took a cab into the little town, where I rented a car. It was a green toyota on the Foxworth's dime. I liked it. I drove to the court house and inquired about public records. Three days of searching and I finally found her. She'd been born in the villiage, November 27, 1879. Her name was Corinne Lacatus back then. It sounded Italian. Born to Alin and Clara. They'd had a house deep in the woods, on the outskirts of town so far as I could see by the map. The man and woman had also had a son, Aleksandir born two years before Corinne. I also found her marriage liscense to Garland in the spring of 1898. In 1901 Malcom Neal Foxworth was born. All record of her ceased to exist after that point. Not even a death certificate. She must have run very far away with her lover, I thought.

I went into a bar looking for someone to tell me where I could find the house. Perhaps some relative still lived there and would be able to tell me more. I figured there'd be some old hats in the bar in the early afternoon.

It was a typical small colonial town. There was a certain musty smell in all the buildings I went into, even in the ones that had been rennovated. It was a world apart from the majority of modern America. A place where the old memories of days long past still clung to the streets. With the age of Information Technology charging through the country with all haste, this little hamlet was tucked away in the mountains, such as a soldiers uniform in an attic trunk. It was obvious they'd tried to modernize; the shiny new stop light was a testament to that. But it seemed they couldn't shake the antiquity that seeped up from the gutters, permeating the air with its musk.

I entered the dingey tavern, and the creatures inside all instinctively looked toward the light. But then the door closed and the long room was cloaked in semi darkness once more. I saw a group of old men playing cards in the back, and I made my way toward them, but I stopped short. Bart Foxworth was sitting at the bar.

I hurried past him, hoping he wouldn't notice me, but he was sharp.

"Aren't you supposed to be working?"

I turned around.

"I am." I said defiantly.

He snorted. "Working on a cocktail." His cheeks were rosy and I could see his eyes sloshing around in their sockets. His hand was wrapped around a martini.

"_'Some of us have places to be'_ indeed." I mocked his voice, putting my hands on hips like my mother did when she was cross. "You're a damn hypocrite is what you are."

"Hey now I don't do this every day."

I noticed that the other people in the room seemed very interested in what he had to say. Even the bartender kept giving him side glances. The group in the back were muttering gutturally to themselves. I guessed they knew just who he was, and I'd say that some things never change in small town america. Everyone knows the rich by name. I shook my head and started off again.

"Oh come on, let's bury the hatchet. I'm not a monster y'know. Have a drink with your boss."

He said it loudly enough.

"You sure it wouldn't be _unprofessional_?"

"_Yes_." he said exasperatedly, spreading his hands wide, like I should know better. Like he had always been the friendliest guy in the world to me.

"One drink." I said firmly.

I dropped my messenger bag on the bar and pulled out a twenty. At the sight of my money the bartender hurried over.

"What can I get you ma'am?"

"D'you have Corona?"

"Yah I'll have to get it out of the back, we don't get too many folks with a foreign taste."

He went away. It was quiet for a moment while Bart sipped at his drink.

"Not too many women like beer do they?" he said casually.

"I'm not the average woman."

"No shit." he laughed raucously.

The bartender returned with a frosty bottle. He cracked it open for me and I handed him the twenty.

"Keep the change." I said.

Bart nearly choked. He sputtered,

"You see that's why, right there. That's why the poor majority will stay poor. You don't know how to spend your money."

"No that's why he won't spit in my drink next time I come in here, if ever. Besides I'll get it back."

He looked puzzled.

"Whatever you send out you'll get back in one way or another."

"Karma." he said. "Stupid heathen concept if you ask me."

"It's been called that, yes, but it's a universal spiritual truth, said in many ways in all the faiths of the world. 'Do unto others' and whatnot."

He shrugged and drained his glass.

"Women." he murmured. "I can't stand it, really. The beautiful ones have heads made of air, and the smart ones-" he looked at me "-are either ugly or standoffish."

"Christ, do you really see only black and white? We've been talking for five minutes and you've already passed judgement on me. Why don't you clean out that crap someones been feeding you from your ears and listen with an open mind? You might find you can have your cake and eat it too where women are concerned."

He scowled, stood abruptly, and tossing some bills on the counter, he left.

I finished my beer in silence and when I was done, I made my way over to the card players who were laughing and talking again. They fell silent as I approached.

"Excuse me, gentleman, I was wondering...well, you sirs look like you may know this area well."

Their faces remained stern, then the man on the far left who wore spectacles and had eyes somewhat more kindly than the others spoke up.

"We know these parts well enough ma'am."

"How would I get to Lockridge road?"

Their expressions shifted subtlely. There was a trace of apprehension.

"What d'yah wanna go way out there for?" he asked.

"Well I'm in town doing some research. Have you ever heard of the name Lacatus?"

This time the man in the middle answered me.

"There ain't nothin out that way." he sounded gruff.

"Now, Randy the gal's just askin."

"Take it from me, there aint nothin out that way young lady. You'd best stay away."

"Look Miss, you're gonna be hard pressed to find someone who'll tell yah how to get down that road." The man with the glasses was almost imploring.

"Is it dangerous?"

I think they were taken aback by the direct question; for a moment they said nothing. Then I said,

"It's all right, I'll find a road map."

I turned away.

"Ma'am. It's just, they've always said there's gypsies down that road."

"Gypsies?" I looked over my shoulder. "But don't gypsies move from place to place?"

They said nothing.

I left the Tavern, wholly intrigued.


	5. Gypsy Hollow

It was easy enough to find Lockridge road on the map. It wound its way through the deep woods on the outskirts of town for almost three miles before coming to a dead end. I decided to go on Friday. Adrian invited himself without Patricks knowledge, ostensibly to get out of the house, but I knew it was because he wanted to protect me. I'd told him about the old men in the bar who were so reluctant to tell me anything about the mysterious pathway.

"Never underestimate suspicious old locals. It's probably nothing, just something their mothers told them when they were young to keep them out of the woods, but you never know." He'd said.

He seemed overly cheerful, and I sensed an underlying tension within him.

We stopped at the only adjoining road that ran along the highway leading out of town. It was an unremarkable dirt road with no sign even posted. Only a chain stretched across by two posts. But it was Lockridge all right. The map said so. I hit the brakes and we both stared it down for a few minutes. We'd driven out of range of the radio, and the only sound in the car was a hiss of static. The road stretched away into the dark woods, now only just beginning to bud. Dead leaves covered it in patches, and it looked as if it hadn't been visited by a car in several years.

I got out of the car and unhooked the heavy logging chain, dragging it across and leaving it in a pile at one end. I got back in. Adrian said,

"No turning back."

"No turning back." I gave him a wink.

We started off. There were no houses and the only thing of note was a sign that read, "Private Land, No Tresspassing, No Hunting".

"Hmm." Adrian had said, frowning.

We'd gone about two miles when Adrian suddenly shouted, "Stop! Stop!"

I'd been craining my neck looking into the trees for some sign of a house, but at his cries I instinctively swerved and slammed on the brakes

I stopped just two inches from a downed tree in the road.

"Shit!"

I got out of the car slamming the door, thinking I might be able to move the tree. It was a gigantic oak, and as I opened my mouth to curse again, I heard Adrian say,

"Oh my God."

I swiveled around and saw that he'd gotten out of the car. He was looking down the road.

I looked too.

"Holy..."

Beyond the first tree were at least a dozen more, all of the same girth and downed along the road in a neat row.

Adrian moved to the first tree, looking at the end, then he stepped over it and looked at the next.

"Marceline, these were cut."

He looked at me, with fear in his eyes.

I stared back at him, then flicked my eyes up the road.

"Whoever put down these trees obviously doesn't want any visitors." He said in an authoritative voice. It was the first time he'd ever spoken to me that way.

"We have a job to do Adrian."

He sighed and looked at me heavily.

"If I refuse to go any further, will that stop you?"

I shook my head.

He abruptly went to the car and came back with my messenger bag.

"Let's go." he said tonelessly.

"A?"

He glanced at me.

"Thanks."

His mouth hardened a little and his eyes looked sad and serious.

"Don't thank me. Don't thank me for this. I don't know what's at the end of this road, but it's nothing good."

We climbed over the trees and walked on in silence. The sunlight dripped through the trees like water from a hole in the roof, and despite the ominous signs that had greeted us, I couldn't help but think that nothing bad could happen on such a pretty day. No clouds marred the sky and the birds chirped away, perhaps tending to their freshly laid eggs. I thought perhaps the relatives of Corinne had moved on and the land was now owned by somebody who never used it. Or, rather I hoped. I hoped we'd find nothing down that road at all. But as I would come to understand it, nobody who tango'd with the Foxworths ever got away unscathed.

We reached the end of the road just as the sun was beginning to sit low in the sky, and we just looked at it.

The house was old and crumbling, windows broken out long ago, with vines twisting their way in and out of them. The roof was half caved in, with brambles and branches littering it, like some absurd wig. It was all overgrown, the earth slowly reclaiming the presence of man with a vengeance. It had once been a poor man's house of the period, with a large stone chimney. What was so startling about the house, was the darkness that seemed to shroud it. Even with the sunlight spilling through the trees onto it, no light seemed to penetrate the windows. After a moment, I realized I could no longer hear the birds either. In fact, nothing at all stirred, not a leaf from a tree fluttering to the ground, not a breath of wind whispering across the face of the thing.

"Well," I said, hearing the crack in my voice, "At least we don't have to worry about disturbing anybody."

Adrian looked as if he quite disagreed, but he took my hand and said,

"Marceline, I don't want to go near it. I think you know that. But if you go in, I'll follow you."

I swallowed over the lump in my throat. Now that I was confronted with the thing, I was positively terrified. I wanted to hold fast to Adrians hand and run pell mell back the way we'd come. But I thought of all the lives that were lost. They deserved their rest. If I could bring it to them, then why should I not?

Adrian had been staring at me; there were times when I wondered if my thoughts were so loud he could hear them. He squeezed my hand.

"Okay, Braveheart. Lead the way."

Together, we fought our way through the overgrown mess that blocked the path to the house. When we came to the old door, it was jammed shut. We took turns kicking it until the rotten wood broke inward. Sunlight streamed onto the dirt floor, and I expected mice and rats and bugs to scatter before the light, but there were none.

"All right no disgusting little creatures!"

"That's very weird." said Adrian, leaning in slightly and peering around cautiously.

"Or fourtunate." I stepped over the threshold and took in the broken glass and wooden dining table that was in ruin on the floor. The absence of a spider or a mouse didn't bother me at all, for I had become quite frightened of such things. When I was a child I'd been quite the entomologist until I'd seen some gruesome movie at a friends house depicting scarab beetles eating a man's flesh.

There was a great rusted black cooking pot in the grate and a single bunch of dried herbs beyond recognition still hung from the ceiling. Adrian stepped fourth to examine them closely. I looked around, noticing the broken kerosene lamps, but anything else was indisinguishable. There was a layer of inch thick dust coating everything. As my eyes adjusted to the semi darkness, shapes began to emerge through the gloom; a chair, a few metal dinner plates on the floor, and a curious gleam from the mantle. I went over to it, where Adrian was still pawing at the dead plant. It turned out to be a huge silver locket, half the size of my palm, covered in dust and tarnished. I put it in my bag.

"This is in Nightshade family." Adrian said. "Used in witchcraft. They _were_ gypsies. That name Lacatus is Romanian."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"I'm one eigth. My great grandmother."

"But Romanians are dark haired. Corinne was blonde."

He shrugged.

"Ready to look in the other room?" I asked.

"As I'll ever be."

We walked softly on the dusty floor, and managed to heave the heavy wooden door open.

I promptly shrieked and buried my face into Adrian's chest.

For there in a wooden cot, lay the twisted figure of a human, barely covered by a ragged blanket.


	6. Concert for the Dead

Adrian held me close while I hyper ventilated. He stroked my hair and spoke calmly.

"He's dead, Marceline, he can't hurt us."

"It's a body! It's a body!" I couldn't think. I couldn't process what I'd seen lying under that filthy blanket.

"It's not a body. It's a skeleton. It's just bones."

He was right. The man had been dead so long that no flesh remained, just a browned skeleton, and a faint smell of rotten meat. He lay in the bed, his skull turned towards the open door, as if expecting visitors. I stole a glance at it and retreated to Adrian's chest in a slew of fresh sobs.

"I-want-t-to-go. N-now."

"Okay, M. Just stand here for a second."

He positioned me facing the outer room, and I heard a sick, scraping noise behind me. I hated having my back to it. I had a prickly sensation up my spine as if the corpse was watching me intently. I wildly imagined it rising slowly from the bed, hands outstretched. Then I felt Adrian grab my arm and lead me out, our feet crunching through the dirt.

Once out in the sunlight I felt a weight lift from my chest. I hadn't even realized it was pressing down on me until the sensation was lifted. I breathed heavily.

It suddenly became dark. The sun had sunk under the horizon.

I looked back toward the house. The quiet that surrounded it had not diminished and it suddenly became like wind roaring in my ears. The moment had taken on a surreal quality; I felt my mind fracture, and all my subconcious came spilling through. I imagined voices, all talking at once, whispering and shouting and laughing in a strange guttral language.

I turned away and broke into a sprint, trying to put as much distance as I could bewteen myself and the house turned tomb. I could hear Adrian running behind me, yelling my name.

"Marceline, stop!"

My lungs burned and my legs had grown numb. I stopped running when I began to cough. With my hands on my knees, I sputtered and gulped air. I saw Adrians feet come to a stop next to mine. I looked up at him. He was breathing heavily, looking down at me with some concern. I noticed something under his arm. What was it? A book? Then I threw up.

I was sitting in the car, watching Charlottesville loom into veiw. I felt like I could smell the body on me. Adrian was driving, looking steadily ahead, his face cloudy with some ominous emotion.

"Keep drinking." he said without looking at me.

I took another swig from the bottle, feeling the cool water trickle down my burning throat.

"What did you take?" I asked.

"Later." he said gently. "Let's just get back and relax a little bit."

My mind had already gone upstairs to my room where my box was waiting for me.

"I called you loads of times." Patrick said, sitting on his bed with his arms folded.

By the time we got back to the house, it was almost 8 o'clock. We'd stopped in town for a couple of burgers, which I was surprised to find I could eat. Eating was comforting because it was something normal to do. Patrick was in another ill mood, because he hadn't been invited on our little adventure.

"There was no service up there, Pat." Adrian parried, referring to our bulky cell phone. Patrick had the other.

I had thrown myself on the couch, and was staring at the ceiling.

"What were you doing?" I could feel Patrick's accusing stare.

"Looking for Corinne."

"And? What did you find?" Patrick was both disbelieving and curious.

"Can we talk about it later?"

"Whatever. Are you going to help me set up or what?"

"I think we should take a break tonight."

"Will you tell me what the hell is going on? What's wrong with her?"

"I swear we'll tell you tomorrow, right M?"

I hitched up a smile.

"Duh. I'm sorry Patrick, it's just a little heavy right now."

He narrowed his eyes.

"Fine. I'll just catalog what we've got."

Outside in the hallway, Adrian said,

"You gonna be okay kid?"

"Yeah. I'll just try to relax. Take a hot bath."

"Okay. I'll check on you later."

I began the trek down the endless hallways and corridors to my room. As I rounded a turn-

"Miss Deboreau, how lovely to see you. How is your investigation coming?" Joel seemed to rise up out of the shadows. You never knew where this strange crooked man was going to turn up.

"Very well, we're making excellent headway..." I said politely.

"Did your search on Lockridge road turn up anything?"

I stared at him.

"How did you know..?"

"Oh word travels fast in these little towns. You should hear the villagers talk about the strange young city people."

"I wouldn't call Salem a metropolis..."

He smiled in such a way that it seemed his wizened face might crack under the strain.

"Well I bid you good night. I hope your quest was...fruitful."

An image of the skull with it's jawbone hanging off floated to the surface of my mind.

He was gone.

In my room with the door locked, I enjoyed a long soak in the tub. Afterwards I began to feel normal again. It was just after midnight and the house lay even more deeply in quiet than usual. I stuffed a towel under the door and lit one up.

Thirty minutes later, I stood with my head hanging out of the window in the cold crisp air, smoking a cigarette. With the lights off and the moon riding so high, you could see all the surrounding land bathed in a dark blue glow. It was more beautiful than during the day, because of it's mystique. It seemed wild and vibrant; a land of chance and risk. I thought of the moon, the very same that witnessed Cathy and Chris's shame. She saw it as the cold judgemental eye of God, but I didn't see it that way at all. To me the moon was only a reflection. Just as it mirrored the sun's light it reflected their conceptions of right and wrong back at them, forcing them to look at themselves as they truly were. I couldn't blame them for what they'd done. My mother raised me to have a kind heart and not to judge others. She'd had gay friends, wiccans, and athiests, for she was attracted to those sorts of ecclectic people. She herself was a buddhist. As for me, well, I'm not entirely sure I could explain it to you in terms you might understand.

As I thought of my mother, my eyes travelled back inside the bedroom toward my travel case.

I held it in my hands. My mother's violin case that I never went anywhere without...Inside was a rare Luthiers violin, one of the last that was ever made. From a very young age my mother had a gift for music, and her principal instrument had always been the violin. She'd always begged my grandmother to buy her one, and her teachers had even suggested it to her, but my grandmother had always refused. Until on her eighteenth birthday, my grandmother presented it to her. She'd spent a large portion of her savings on it. My mother would never forget what she said on that day,

"This is priceless, my child, sweet child. I waited to give it to you for such a long time because you deserve the best. Keep it close! And my love will never be far 'way."

This gift for sound, tone, pitch, and melody... she'd passed on to me.

I took the violin from it's box. I ran my thumb across the strings. I felt the music welling up from within.

I was walking through the halls in a haze feeling the house come alive to watch me soundlessly. As I went on I imagined that I was hearing the voices of those past. They were whispering. _Who is this girl? Why has she come?_ I answered without uttering a word, _I have come to play for you._

I stood in the middle of the entrance hall, the grand stairs behind me. I felt the emptiness of the huge space all around me. I knew the accoustics would be extraordianary.

"Ladies and Gentleman." I bowed to the invisible crowd, heard them murmur curiously. I began to play Vivaldi's "Spring". As I played with my eyes closed I saw through my eyelids quick flashes of shapes that began to appear like twirling hoop skirts. The more I concentrated on the music, the more I saw of them. The ghosts of Foxworth Hall, not just the tormented ones, but the ones who'd lived before the time of the curse. They seemed so happy to see someone who also saw them, not as fearful specteres, but as people who'd once breathed and lived and laughed and loved. They danced in circles around me, jubilant and full of life. My last note stretched out and faded away and so did they.

I opened my eyes and saw nothing but darkness; felt the emptiness of the hall again. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw him. Little hallowed cherub, with eyes as big as dinner plates, staring at me with wonder and a wistfulness I couldn't bear, from between the pillars holding up the banister that ran along the access to the upper floors. He still wasnt allowed downstairs. Then I blinked and he was gone.

I started up the grand staircase when a small noise made me stop. I thought it was Cory again, but as I listened it turned out to be the shuffling of feet. It was Joel. He stood at the top of the stairs holding a flashlight. I knew it was a flashlight because he clicked it on a moment later. I could only see his crooked silhouette as he shined the bright light onto my face.

"I'm sorry, sir." I started hurriedly. "I...just knew the accoustics would be amazing in this room, and I have difficulty sleeping at night sometimes."

He appeared not to have heard me, he only muttered as if to himself,

"I wasn't sure...not till now.."

He clicked the flashlight off and scuttled away quickly, still murmuring.

I wondered if he was a sleep walker.

I went to my room and threw myself on the bed, my preformace having drained me successfully. Not just of my energy, but of my thoughts and fears as well. It was what playing that violin had always done. Peacefully I slept.


	7. Corinne

Someone was sitting on my bed. I started up wildly, expecting a ghost. But the midday sun came pouring in through the windows and Adrian sat quietly making shushing noises.

"It's all right. You were sleeping like a log."

"God, what time is it?"

"Just a little after noon."

"I slept for fourteen hours?"

"Yesterday was a pretty bad day."

Another image of the skeleton flashed through my mind. I put my head in my hands. As if he'd known I was recalling the corpse, he said,

"I know who it was."

I looked up at him.

"Who? And for that matter, how?"

"It was Aleksandir, Corinnes brother. And I know, because of this."

He pulled a thick book off of the nightstand. It was an old book, bound in aged black leather, with brown pages. At Princeton, I'd been a history major. I thought the future was wonderful, but time has a way of repeating itself. You'll never know who you'll be if you don't know who you were. I loved all things antique, and through my horror at discovering the skeleton, and my desire to never think of it again, I was fascinated by the book. I took it from him gingerly. It was english, late 16th century, or perhaps older. It was a personal ledger of some kind, bound in Grimsby. It wasn't just an antique. It was a piece of history.

I opened it up to the first page expecting lovely English scripture of the age, only to find it was written in a strange language.

"Old Rom." Adrian said. My confusion must have appeared on my face. "I can't read it, but my nana could...maybe. I doubt it, though, the dialect is probably too old. But you see that word? _Semintie_? It means family in Romanian."

"Could we send it to her, maybe? Is there anyone else you know who could read it?"

"Well, we could, but it switches to english eventually. And it explains... pretty much all we need to know."

Why did he say it like that? Why did his eyes look so dark? What was this house doing to us already?

I turned the pages of the book, searching for english. It wasn't until the last pages that I came to it.

"_27, November, 1879. As my poor father died in his bed, my wife gave birth to my second child in the other room. This girl child is the one. The one we have been waiting for. The one who will carry out the oath sworn by my great ancestor, Horatiu, the Timekeeper before he hung at the hands of the draculs, Foxworths! Devils! I spit on this floor at their mention. Three hundred years have passed since they commanded Him to be hung for practising the Craft of our people. At last we have found them and settled underneath their mountain, as snakes in the bed of the Mighty King. The Timekeeper stood at the nuce on that day and declared that he would not rest until the demons who terrorized our people, and their children, and their children's children were down in the earth with him! The rest of my poor family was put on a ship bound for the Americas, to be servants for the rich white bile that rules this earth. And we waited, waited for our chance to give our justice! Our time is now! For this child, born with the blue eyes and yellow hair will be the sword of our justice._

The next entry wasn't until 12 years later.

_"15, April, 1891. My daughter we have named an English name, Corinne. I am told this means, beautiful maiden. And this she is. We have sent her to the school in the town to learn English ways, so better as to fool the young son of the Foxworths. We are driving the sheep into towns far away so that we may buy for her many things so she may become accustomed to the finery of the white men. She is pale, blue eyed, and blonde, more perfect than we could have ever dreamed. A girl child who looks English but runs with the blood of Rom. She learns the ways of the English at day but at night she comes home to us to learn of her people. She is happy to be chosen by our Ancestors to enact our revenge. When she is ripe as a delicious peach she will seduce the youngest Foxworth and plant the seed of justice._

Two years later:

_"19, December, 1893. My father is not expected to live out the fortnight. He pulls me close and says to me, that I must ensure my sister carries out her purpose. He laments that he will not live to see that the deed is done. I, Aleksandir Lacatus, must guide my sister to her destiny. I swear this to my father as I pour the soup of my flesh into his mouth to ensure his easy passage to the next world. _

_"20, May, 1898. We took Corinne out of the town life four years ago so as not to arouse suspicion about her origins. It is of the utmost importance that Garland Foxworth not discover that she comes of us. She is much excited that her moment has come at last. We have molded her into a fine example of the English. I have used the last of our money to buy her the clothing that will make her pleasing to the young Foxworth. After observing him for several weeks, we know the young Foxworth rides through the town every Sunday to the Church on the western side. Corinne will walk across the road on this day, tomorrow. She has grown beautiful, more beautiful than we had ever hoped. That foolish young man will not be able to resist her. He goes to the Church on their Holy day to clean the stink of the whores of the night before. He will not turn away from her. She will deny him until he breaks and marries her, driven insane by the lust she will inspire in him. Our time has come at last. _

The next entry was eight years later. The scrawl was sloppy, with harsh lines.

_"28, January, 1906. Eight years have passed since my sister has entered the home of the Foxworths. In the beginning, she kept a correspondence with us, as she searched the house for the object that was taken three hundred years ago from our greatest ancestor. But soon her letters became fewer and fewer. When I heard it through the town that she'd given birth to a son, I went to the house in the night to call to her from the ground. She opened a window and she says to me, What am I doing here. What am I doing here? The shame! Shame she brings on her familie! She has grown soft in the comfort of her husbands wealth! My poor father dies and cannot see the fruits of justice, and now my poor mama dies and is denied as well! I say to her, she is not English blood! I say to her, she must serve her purpose! She must uphold her oath. As it is my oath. And my fathers oath. And all his fathers before him. She throws the locket out the window and she says to me, Have your trinket! You will not sacrifice my son! I love him, she says. Loves him! I love Garland! she says. Stupid cow! Stupid foolish girl child! But she does not know. Does not know what I will do. I am bound by blood to see that it comes to pass._

The next entry was even sloppier and I noticed that he was even writing in an accent now. I imagined a guttral, frenzied voice. 

_"13, September, 1906. Tonight I have stolen into the house of my sister and the dracul. I have slipped into her room. I have covered her mout so she does not scream. I say to her that I will kill her and her child and her husband before I let her betray us. I tear her clothes. I mess her hair. I cut her on her chest wit my knife. I say to her this blood belong to her familie. And the child belong to her familie, and all the children born after will belong to her familie. I say to her make a balcony on dis room, dis lavish room for white swine. She will deliver the child to me on the night of souls with the hair of his fater and her own blood. I shall make the sacrifice and deliver the body to her in the morning._

I sucked in my breath and looked at Adrian. He was staring at me with such a heavy sadness in his eyes. I turned the page with a monstrous beat drumming inside my ribcage.

_"31, October, 1906. The deed has been done. I took the sleeping child from my sister in a sling she lowered over the balcony with tears in her eyes. If she only knew how she was serving her family, perhaps she would not cry. I took him into the forest and removed his clothes, and laid him into the circle. He wakes and began to weep like a maid. I say to him be quiet for dis is only a dream. If he is not still I says, I will cut his throat and then his mothers. I put the hair of his father in the north point. I put the blood of his mother in the south point. The locket, taken from The Timekeeper at the time of his arrest on the child's chest. I say the words that will bring the Timekeeper on the night of souls, when the gate is open. Vin la noi, cronometrorului, vin sa traiasca din nou, am sa va aduca fiul lui Dracul, vin sa traiasca din nou, vin sa traiasca din nou, de puterea de trei, ori trei, astfel mova fi! And there came a great cloud from the ground and it went into the mouth of the child. The boy screamed and fitted and then lay still. The locket burned a mark on his skin, over his heart but he lay still. I took him back to my sister, and she cried again to see the burn on his skin. I tell her to come home but she say, no! She say she stay wit her child! I say she serve her purpose and never to come back again! I see a servant in another window. I leave. My familie can rest now. My Great ancestor lives again in the body he made! Justice is done. _

The room had grown dark. Adrian stared at me hollowly, as if he couldnt see me, but poor Malcom, as his chance at a normal life was taken away.

"There's more."

With a sick feeling in my heart I turned the page. The writing was different; neat, and delicate, and smudged with tears.

_"21, December, 1906. If anyone should ever read this, I want it to be known that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for releasing such evil into the world. I loved Garland, and I loved my sweet Malcom. Garland showed me God, who forgives and loves and his own love that overwhelmed me so. I tried to make him throw me out, for what my brother wanted me to do was so frightful and wicked. I spent ludicrous amounts of money and tried to make it seem as though I was having an affair. I tried so hard to save my son. But when Alek threatened to kill him I accepted it. I went into that dreadful attic and found the locket in a box covered in quilts. I should'nt have. I should have rather let his soul escape unharmed than allow him to share it with that wicked man! I see him in my sons eyes! He comes to me in my dreams! Malcom doesnt know what resides in his body! He hurts so when I turn away from him, but I can't stand to look at him! He turns violent and breaks things and cuts my hair when I sleep! And I know it's that creature! I know it! I love him, and my husband, but I can't bear to live with myself anymore. I tied a rope I found in the attic to my bed post and climbed out of the house. I came here to my childhood home. My brother was asleep in his bed. I took his pillow and I smothered him. I thought it would soothe me but now it is only my regrets that live inside me. I know I will go to hell. Not just for what I've done, but for what I'm about to do. For by the time you, whoever you might be, read this, I shall be dead. I am going to the bridge where I often went as a child to throw stones into the water and I will plummet to my icy tomb. It's what I deserve for what I have done. _

_~Corinne Foxworth _

Oh how she'd embellished the name Foxworth! 


	8. The Tiger's dance and the Dragon emerges

"So what do we do?" I asked, pushing the evil book away numbly.

"I don't know." Adrian said.

"I wish it really was a demon. We know how to deal with demons. How do you fight an angry spirit? Is it sentient? Where did it go when Malcom died?" I let my questions spill out of me.

"I believe it's sentient. I think it's obvious where it went. Into the house itself. The truth is, I've never encountered anything like this before..."

"We have to tell them, don't we?"

"I think we can wait on that."

"Why?"

"They may not believe us."

"So what do we do?"

"I have to think about it. Just relax for now."

He picked up the book.

"I'm going to show this to Patrick."

"You know he doesn't believe in that stuff."

"Oh he does. He's terrified of it. So he denies it."

"I'm terrified of it too."

He looked at me, sighed, then bent to kiss the top of my head.

"I know."

He left me alone with my thoughts. I glanced around the room fearfully as if simply thinking of the dead gypsy man would summon him. So this was the darkness that wove in and out of the innocent lives of the Foxworths who had nothing to do with the incarceration and death of a 16th century gypsy king. I wondered how a soul could do that. Perhaps his rage was so great that it consumed his soul and manifested into a dark curse. A curse that thought and plotted and took decisive slashes at this family who'd so wronged him. It was odd that Malcom never sensed the presence in him, but then, maybe he had. Maybe he thought if he spoke of it, he would be declared insane. In it's twisted ironic way, the curse took the very religious beliefs that were his downfall and amplified them, making them the reason for the loss of many innocent lives. And then once in a while, it stretched forth it's hand and took someone by force. Like Catherine's father. Like Mal. It tried to take Joel, but failed somehow. Perhaps it had bigger plans for him. I shivered for it had suddenly grown cold. I pulled on my sweatshirt from Princeton. Lit a ciggarette.

In the evening the five of us trapped in this madhouse sat down to dinner, (roast beef) cooked by Joel, who wasn't a bad cook at all.

"Is that _your_ Princeton sweatshirt?"

Bart glared at me accusingly.

"No, I bought it off an Indian man selling them from a cart. Of course it's mine!" I said, smiling.

Patrick and Adrian laughed.

"Oh. I'm starting my third semester at Harvard Law this fall." Bart said proudly. "Just like my father."

"Fascinating."

He huffed, angry now.

"You know, sarcasm is very immature."

"Or maybe you just don't have a sense of humor."

He huffed again. As I looked at him, I realized that the last thing any of us needed in this house was more anmity. I said,

"I'm sorry. Have you given any thought to what kind of law you want to practice?"

He looked at me suspiciously, like he wasn't sure I was sincere.

"Not really.." he said slowly, cautiously, like he was waiting for some invisible axe to fly at his head.

"I bet you'd make a great prosecuter." Patrick spoke up. I looked at him, worried that he was taking a swipe at Bart, but he looked calm, benevolent, even. Just as Bart was about to answer, Joel said,

"Like a muddied spring or a polluted fountain is a righteous man who gives way before the wicked."

Barts mouth closed and he turned red, ashamed. I stared at Joel who hadn't said a single word til then. The first time he opens his mouth for whole meal since he'd prayed over his food, and he says that? I glanced at Adrian and Patrick; Patrick had turned back to his food immeadiately, unruffled as always, but Adrian stared at Joel with what appeared to be pity. Just what this family needs; another pious old man. As I stared at Joel, I wondered if knowing that the devoutness of himself and generations before him was their undoing would change him at all. He raised his watery blue eyes from his plate and looked at me with something resembling revulsion. I have to say, at that moment I became filled with inexplicable distress. I stood up abruptly and left from the table.

That night, spring rain lashed the side of the house, gushing down in a torrent. I laid myself down uneasily, wishing I could lock the door, too afraid to open my little box, lest I become even more paranoid. Eventually the white noise of the steady drum of rain drops made my eyes heavy, and I drifted to sleep.

It felt like I'd been asleep for five minutes when I started awake. Someone was standing beside my bed!

"It's me! It's me!"

Adrian.

"Will you stop doing that?! You're going to give me a coronary!"

"I'm sorry, I'll go."

"No, don't. I'm sorry. It's this fuckin' house."

I looked at the clock. 1:30. The rain had stopped.

"I just...didn't want to sleep alone."

I looked at him. A sliver of light from the window fell across his face. His eyes were shining, brimming with emotion. He wore a tee shirt and boxers. His long legs stood bathed in a bar of light. I opened the covers to him.

He got into my bed. We lay facing each other a moment or two, then he tipped his head and brushed his lips on mine. I kissed him again, and soon we were deeply embracing, our breath becoming heavy. _This_ wasn't the first time either.

* * *

The first time Adrian and I had made love, was a few weeks after Eric left. I was parked on Adrian's couch, not wanting to go home and purge my apartment of everything that reminded me of Eric. I think that perhaps in some deep crevice of my mind I was still hoping that Eric would come back one day, because he must have missed me as much as I missed him. So I languished in Adrian's apartment and waited for _him_ to come home as I'd once waited for Eric. Even though we'd kissed, Adrian had never pressured me, knowing that I couldn't complicate myself further with a rebound. Instead he did little things. Little touches, that one might think wouldn't matter much. Brushing a strand of hair from my face. A hand on the small of my back as I walked through the door of the diner we frequented. His arm grazing mine ever so gently. A leg pushed up against mine under the table. In the car, he'd tuned in to my favorite radio station and left it there. All those little things were what saw me through that initial period when I'd grieved the loss of my love.

One clear, cold, and quiet winter's night, I was overwhelmed with dysphoria and emptiness; missing the feeling of a body next to mine. Adrian's cat lay sprawled on the edge of the couch and I rose as gently as possible so as not to disturb him.

I had a moments trepidation outside of Adrians door. I wasn't entirely sure of what I had wanted at that instant. I took a deep breath, and I opened the door.

Adrian was lying in bed, his arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling as if lost in a great reverie. His bedside lamp was on, casting a soft orange glow over the room. He shifted his head toward me upon my entry, and said,

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing...well, I don't know. I guess...I just don't want to sleep alone."

He turned his head back toward the ceiling, and swallowed; I could hear the dry click in his throat. He reached over, in that slow way of his, and switched off the light. I wasn't sure what I should do at all, when he said,

"C'mere."

He said it so softly. If the deep winter quiet had not lain over the world so, I might not have heard him. Something in his voice touched me so completely that my quivering heart stilled. I crawled in beside him and to my surprise his arms came up and wrapped themselves around me seamlessly. I had not intended it, but the heady scent of his warm breath so close to my face drove me to kiss him. He did not startle, but glided into the kiss as though he'd planned it all along. Soon our bodies grew hot, though winters chill was seeping in from outside. It didn't surprise me that Adrian's hands moved sleekly into the gaps of my clothes to find my secret places. Every move he made was fluid. Always.

I wish I could say I had as much finesse as he. I won't say I didn't have any awkward moments, but I certainly didn't notice them in the same way as I had with others. I slid my hand down his stomach and into his pajama bottoms and he let out his breath a little harder than before, and bent his neck to kiss my chest. Smoothly, so smoothly he slid out of his clothes, and pulled mine off with a flourish, as though he were revealing something magnificent. I lay in front of him on my back, staring up at his body; bright in the darkness, whiter than snow. He gazed down at me, taking in every curve, every slope. He traced his fingers over my tattoos, twin red imperial dragons, twisting symetrically from my stomach, curling around my breasts and facing each other on my breastbone. He fell upon me slowly and took me with gentle passion, as though every movement was absolutely sacred. He pumped himself in me steadily, stimulating my clitoris with his finger. With Eric, it had been frenzied at best, and towards the end we were simply going through the motions sexually. But Adrian treated my body like a well oiled machine, pressing all my buttons, while pulling my handles and pumping my pistons. Soon I felt the pressure building, and he felt it too; he was pumping a little faster. Then it happened, and my body responded to the stimulation with astonishing vehemence. My hips pushed off the sheets and I let out a halting cry; at the same time, Adrian's head fell forward and he gasped and growled like some sort of animal. It was the first true orgasm of my life.

Afterward we sat next to each other in utter silence, yet it was not uncomfortable. He reached over and took the cigarette from my hand; took a deep drag. I had a thought before I fell asleep: That it was the first time I'd made love. There was sex, which was perfunctionary, driven by instinct. And then there was love making. It had been like a performace, a perfect dance of two bodies completely in sync.

That night I dreamed I was sitting naked in the most extraordinary garden. Lotus blossoms bloomed from every direction and colorful birds were in every tree. Golden afternoon sunshine poured into a clear pond where koi swam lazily. A golden tiger lay across the pond in a patch of sun. The tigers' greenish yellow eyes looked at me penetratingly and it said without words, _where do you belong? _I could hear a bulbul tarang strumming all around me, filling me with the most peaceful resonance I'd ever experienced. No thoughts came into my head, it was blissfully empty, completely drained.

In the weeks that followed, Adrian and I made love with no regularity. Sometimes we did, and sometimes things were the way they'd always been. I believe at that point in time I was falling in love with Adrian and still falling out of love with Eric. It was a peculiar time, as I reflected back on my ex fiance, realizing everything I'd done wrong; at the same time, realizing how remarkably different it was with Adrian. Not only were the details of our relationship different, but the way I felt about our relationship was different.

You see, with Eric, I'd always been a little on edge. I considered him perfect physically, and really, he was the sort of man I was most attracted to at the time. Long hair, tattoos, rediculously tall, broad chested, sculpted features. He looked like a Viking warrior. I thought every girl who ever looked at him was attracted to him and there were many who were. His female friends all in some way or another desired him. They demanded his attention and I think he liked being admired, who doesn't? But I'd put him on a pedestal of perfection, and if I saw perfection in him, it stood to reason that every other woman in his life saw what I did. So whenever he'd see them, at parties or whatnot gatherings, I'd hang back, sullen, silent and almost hating him for not coming after me. For not keeping me at his side while they fawned over him. Guys would come up to me at these gatherings, but when I looked at them, they just appeared mediocre, and Eric didn't seem to feel as strongly about my male friends as I felt about his female harem. When he'd proposed to me, I'd felt happy, believing then, that all his little friends would leave him alone since he was claimed. But they didn't. In fact, they became more demanding than ever before! Many a night I went to bed sobbing, alone, worrying about him leaving because of my jealousy. He began to comment on the attractivness of women on TV, and then in public. I tried to fight back, to say that this or that man was just as attractive. I tried to be aloof, but inside I was screaming, wanting him to see only me as I saw only him. Toward the end, I threatened suicide sometimes. I allowed all my hopes and dreams to be wrapped up in a man who was still just a boy.

But during those weeks with Adrian, that insessant jealousy, the constant worries about his feelings towards me, were non existant. And I knew why.

There were no promises. I wasn't ready for a relationship; he didn't refer to me as his girlfriend, I didn't refer to him as my boyfriend. I wondered about having him in that capacity, but only in an offhand way. I didn't put any kind of label for the future on his head. He was just as attractive as Eric had been, almost seven inches shorter, but still incredibly handsome, even more so, in fact. Yet when girls stared at him I felt only a twinge of what I'd felt before. Before, it felt like a giant eagle had swooped down to claw at my head, but now it was like a moth bouncing against my arm. I think during those first few weeks, I found myself surprised that I had in fact survived. I used to think that if Eric ever dumped me, I'd jump in my car and just travel the country like those hippies in the sixties, daring some hitchiking killer to slaughter me. Then Eric would be sorry. But when it actually happened, I just took it. My brain had somehow formed a protective coccoon around my pain, locking it away to drain out slowly, while Adrian made me fall for him a little bit day by day. I still longed for Eric, until one day damned if I didn't see him on the street with his arm wrapped around a homely girl with a bulging pregnant belly. One of his "friends". And I laughed to see it.

There were no promises for Adrian to break, and after a time, I knew that Adrian would never break one should he make it. I came to understand he didn't toss about promises lightly, and as I had just painfully learned, for good reason.

So Adrian in his slow persistant way, had hurried along the process to heal my wounds. I still had a ways to go, for sometimes Eric crept into my thoughts and tormented me there. But the road was shorter now, and whether Adrian lay at the end of it I couldn't say. And for the first time since my first kiss in seventh grade, that was just fine.

Adrian lay beside me for several hours asleep. I gently roused him just before dawn so he could slip back to his room. I didn't worry about him being seen or heard. He was naturally stealthy, like a tiger in the trees. Just as beautiful.

I stood next to the window, watching him pull his clothes on, while I puffed on a cigarette.

"You know you're gonna have to tell Patrick sometime." he said in an offhand manner, as if Patrick were an afterthought.

"That woud imply that there is something to tell of."

He let out a single ironic laugh. Then he turned a wily golden hazel eye on me; very rare for him to be mischivous.

"Maybe there is."

I smiled at him.

He came over to me. I flicked my ciggarette out the window and put my arms around him. He studied my face as he often did, and I still didn't know what he saw that made his eyes glow, as if he were staring into a brilliant red summer sunset. He sighed deeply, and buried his face into my neck, groaning,

"You're killing me."

"What do you mean?" I whispered into ear.

"Sometimes I feel like a room is dripping with beauty when you're in it. Not the classic colorful kind either, like a green garden of roses. I mean like a black and white photograph, or the bare trees in winter at sunset. Simple, y'know, like a single orchid in a stark white room. It just kills me."

He said it dispassionately, like he said everything, as if he were talking about the weather. But his touches, his eyes all told me he was so deeply sincere, and my eyes stung for a moment. I collected myself.

He kissed my cheek and glided on long steps out of my room, not closing the door all the way. I stood a moment longer looking out of the windows at the quiet night, breathing in the scent of fresh rain, then I moved across the room to push the door closed. As I went, it swung open gently. I froze, panic gripping my heart. _The ghosts, the ghosts, they were coming in!_

But a gnarled, sinewy hand reached over the threshold, and Joel Foxworth stepped into the room. He closed the door behind him soft as a whisper and stared around, when his eye fell upon me, standing in my longest tee shirt.

"Mr. Foxworth-!" I started, but his eyes flared up like a flame as he took in my lack of clothes.

_"Whore!"_ he spat. "I knew you'd be a whore, just like _her_."

"Mr. Foxworth, I'm sorry-" I began, fearing for our jobs, not even catching his implication.

"-_Yes, if you're not the sorriest harlot this side of the atlantic!" _He was so angry he was spitting. _"But I suppose I should expect nothing less of the sin of my flesh! All the SORRY women in my bloodline, whores, harlots every last one!"_

"What the hell are you talking about?!" I nearly shouted. I was horrified he'd caught me sleeping with Adrian, but more than that, his raving about sins of his flesh took me somewhere dark, and everything ceased to be real at that moment. It was a nightmare and I was suddenly drowning, drowning in it!

He strode the distance between us so quickly it shocked me, and to my face he delivered a hard stinging slap. Too hard for a man of his advancing years, it was almost superhuman. I tripped on my heel and fell to the floor.

"Fool!" He delcared, spit flying. _"Jeanette! The whore of The Papillon Fille!"_

My mind reeled. Jeanette. My grandmother's name. The Papillon Fille, a juke joint she used to sing at when she was young and had a glorious voice, one she only used for church now. She'd quit to raise my mother.

"What?" I said shakily, holding my hand to my face. I was in a thick fog from that slap.

"That's right, your grandmother was nothing but a stinking black whore, sent from hell to soil every mans' good name. Just like you." he said, rasping in and out.

There wasn't a whole lot I understood at that time, but when he called my grandmother a whore, something awakened inside of me. Some unknown power that had gigantic wings that began to beat and teeth that shone bone white. Red hot fire licked my insides and smoke streamed from my mouth and I turned around slowly from my position on the floor to stare at him. As I did, a smile cracked my face. Oh it did give me satisfaction to see him blanch.

"My grandmother was _not_ a whore. I _know_ you took it from her. I _know_ you heard her voice as you played the piano that night and you wanted her, and you weren't enough of a man for her to consider, _and that pissed you off_."

I knew no such thing of course, but it had the effect this fledgeling beast in my belly demanded. His eyes grew wild and dangerous as his lips folded and unfolded upon themselves; apparently he couldn't find words terrible enough for me.

I let out a humorless laugh.

"Your silence says it all, _Grandfather_. So at last I've met you. Why couldn't you just stay dead in the alps?"

He turned and left, shuffling out more slowly than he would have normally, as if he was weakened physically by the encounter that he'd initiated.


	9. Descisions

I went into the bathroom and put a cold washcloth over the red spot on my cheek, feeling my resolution growing. I collapsed on my little feminine couch and smoked half a joint. The beast inside my chest began to roar. And I waited for the dawn.

When the sun was up I put on a pair of jeans and went straight to Patricks room. I shook him roughly awake.

"Bloody hell, Marceline what-?"

"Pack up this gear, we're leaving."

"What are you-?"

But I was already out the door, barging into Adrian's room.

I touched his shoulder and he bolted upward instantly.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his eyes alert.

"Adrian, we have to go."

"Okay."

He didn't ask why, as I'd expected him to. I didn't think he was so clairvoyant that he knew why, but rather, he read my eyes and saw something resolute there, the exact resolution that he'd seen on the day we went to the childhood home of Corinne Foxworth the first. My great great grandmother. I shuddered at the thought. He set about throwing things into his bag, but there wasn't much. It was like he knew we'd be leaving. One way or another. I left to make sure Patrick was putting the gear away.

Patrick was shirtless, fixing his belt, muttering to himself. He turned toward me as I walked in.

"You'd better have a damn good explanation. _And dont you dare tell me it's that curse!_" He said the word 'curse' like it was 'fairy' or 'griffin'. "What a pile of bollocks!"

"It's not that but I'll explain in the car, okay?" I pleaded. It didn't move him.

"No, God _dammit_, no! You've kept everything from me the whole time we've been here, I mean, what the fuck is going on? Have you gone as mad as those two idiots downstairs? Have you any idea what it's going to cost us to just pick up and leave? I'll have to charge the plane tickets to the company card, because that rich cunt won't pay us if we just fuck off suddenly. And then what do you think Mick is guna say?!"-Mick was our boss-"I'll tell you what he'll say. He'll fire you, me, and Adrian on the spot! Have you forgotten that there are ten six hundred dollar cameras scattered around this house? No, not this time, _kittycat_. You are going to sit right there and tell me WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!"

Oooh, he'd never shouted at me like that before, and it hurt. It hurt so much I was already crying before my butt hit the couch cushion. I was sobbing out the entire scene from the night before. Everything, including Adrian. Patrick turned his back then. I couldn't see his face as his hands gripped the dresser so hard, his knuckles turned white. His shoulders shook. I didn't want to believe he was crying, not my cool, collected Patrick.

"So I'm leaving. I'm leaving today. Not tomorrow. Not next week." I finished in my shuddering voice.

"Fine." Came a deep gurgle from his throat. "Go. I will stay here and finish up. Your work is done anyway. I don't need you...anymore."

"P-please come with me, Pat." I whispered. "I don't want to leave you here."

"GO!" he shouted, his voice cracking.

I got up on creaking legs. At the door, I turned back to him; big fat tears were sliding down my face afresh.

"Adrian is going too."

Patrick did not turn, but nodded stiffly. I thought I heard a sob as the door closed.

As I threw my notebooks, clothes and bath accesories into my trunk, I was again in a haze. It was as if the moment I became one of _them_, my life unravelled faster than the speed of light. I knew I'd just lost one of my best friends. Would Adrian be taken too? Would that hateful old gyp rip everyone away from me? If I ran far enough, and fast enough, could I get away? _Of course not_, I thought bitterly, _had getting away helped the Dresden Dolls, or what was left of them?_

I hadn't told Bart or Joel that we were leaving. I knew Patrick would explain. As I drove my little green Toyota back the way I'd come, it began to rain. I looked in the mirror at Foxworth Hall, shrinking rapidly.

_I'm not through with you, _I thought savagely.

At the airport in Richmond, I bought two tickets to New Orleans on my company card. I had to know the truth from the one person I could trust. I was going home.


	10. Home

The air swam hazily around me. To breathe in was to take a gulp of liquid warmth. It was so moist it felt as though I had lotion all over my body and I immeadiately began to perspire.

_Bienvenue a la maison, ma cherie Marceline._

I was driving down a sun parched road, winding its' way through soggy marshlands. Adrian lay sleeping next to me. He looked so beautiful when he slept. He had a rennaisance look about him when he was awake, but oh how he looked like DaVincis work when he slept.

I knew this road so well, like the veins on the back of my hand. Left, right, right, left, and I was there. Inside that three bedroom, one story, tiny little house, way back in the trees, lived my mother and my grandmother. The ouside was painted pale beige with brown trim. There was a small herb garden and a larger vegetable patch. Out back there was a path that led to the edge of the water that sometimes flooded and sometimes was nothing more than a stinking mud patch. The house stood in an opening of sunlight; a vision in gold and green all around it. I looked at it and I saw myself; a light skinned little imp playing with frogs and other small creatures I found. I saw a seventeen year old girl taking a blind date to prom, a sallow young man, cousin of a friend, who refused to dance with her and sat drinking soda all night. I shook Adrian awake and he looked at my grandmother's house lazily.

"This house is much better." he yawned.

I opened the door with my key and the moment I did, my mother was upon me, hugging me, kissing my hair and exclaiming in a mixture of french and english. She still looked as she always did, almost exactly like I'd probably look when I got older, but a shade darker, her lips a little fuller, her salt and pepper hair a little more unruly. It came as a shock to see more wrinkles creasing her jawline, more than I'd ever seen before. Her hands beginning to show the tendons from age. We were within an inch of each others heights, and she looked at me with great pride.

"Oh, you got more a those damned tattoos!" she said, but she was smiling.

"Whasay?" My grandmother called from the living room, which also served as a dining room. "That childs' got more _writin'_ on her? Oh Lord, Jesus." But when she came to me, she too was smiling, showing her perfectly white teeth. Her hair was stark white with only a little black remaining, her face was no longer hard but a mass of wrinkles, like a rumpled blanket, but her dark eyes shown just as brightly. Perched on her nose was a pair of half moon spectacles, attached to a long chain that went about her neck.

I hugged her with an unpleasent feeling around my middle. I hadn't been home in more than two years, and I despised that I'd come to drag out the past that must have pained them greatly.

"This is my friend Adrian."

My grandmother and mother's disposition shifted so quickly it was the same as turning a light off.

"Well let me cook y'all somethin to eat." My grandmother shuffled into the kitchen, her brow furrowed.

"Why don't you sit down and watch some TV while I help in the kitchen. _Content que tu as de retour, ma cherie Marceline_." My mother looked at me meaningfully.

"What did she say?" Adrian asked me in hushed tones as we sat down in the living room, with it's dark wood paneled walls and the plastic covered couch. I smiled, for that couch had been covered when I was a child.

"She said she's glad I'm back."

"When will you talk to your grandmother?"

"Later...I..just can't show up and say hey were you raped by the son of one of the richest men in America?"

We sat in the living room with it's thin green carpet that went all through the house, staring at the fuzzy discolored Panasonic television that had seen me romping around the room with my Barbie dolls, sometimes with another girl who lived down the road, who had moved away long ago. Her name was Sarah. I smiled, thinking of her, with her sandy blonde hair and remembering how she'd always worn pretty ruffled dresses. It felt good to remember those innocent days, laced only with a little nostalgia, for I realized at that moment that because those times existed, and as long as I remembered them, they never ended. Not really.

"Wanna see my old room?" I asked, not playfully, or suggestively but only because I knew Adrian would be intrigued to see where I grew up.

"Sure," he said.

I led him down the short, small hallway to the middle door with The Cure poster on it.

"Nice," he said, making a rare attempt at teasing me.

"Shut up." I said, smiling, because it felt like old times for a moment.

Inside was a twin bed and a box spring, on the floor, because a bed frame would have taken up too much space, and my mother couldn'tve afforded one anyway. But I'd made up for it by purchasing colorful purple plaid sheets and a black mesh canopy to hang from the ceiling on a hook with the money I made working at a local movie theater. Every available wall space was covered with band posters, movie posters, pictures of celebrities I'd photocopied at the library, and since my mother encouraged my creativity I'd painted stars and moons and little twisting designs all over every space that wasn't covered, ending with a sunburst over my bed. I'd developed a liking for asian culture when I was sixteen and had bought small trinkets that rested on every surface: two cheap plastic imperial lion bookends, a little tibetan teapot and cups with no handles, incense burners, a blunt decorative katana, and a tiny red jade buddha, with his wide smile and enormous belly. It wasn't surprising; my mother had even more asian items in her room, because she was a buddhist.

Adrian stared around, smiling faintly at this or that. He picked up a book that was resting on my dresser, reading the title.

"Little dark, don't you think?" he said, holding it up.

The book was called, GHOST STORIES, all in capital letters, which wasn't exactly dark perse. I think it was the picture on the tattered cover that made him say that. It depicted a black cloaked and hooded figure, rising from a misty cemetary, with skeleton hands folded in front, and nothing but a pair of red dots glowing from under the hood.

"It was my fathers'." I said, my voice tight.

My mother at first did not want me to keep the book, because I'd sneak away to the closet and look at it and cry, still too little to read the words. She'd catch me and scream that he was never coming back! I'd shout back that she'd yelled at him too much and made him run away!

Eventually, when I'd accepted the fact that he was gone, she let me have it. I'd read it a dozen times, and it sparked my interest in the paranormal, something my mother destested, but was careful not to let me know it. Not careful enough, but I appriciated the effort.

I took the book from Adrian, and flipped it open to a certain page, where I pulled out the two photographs I kept there.

One was a polaroid of my father and mother, standing beside a sleek black little car, dressed to go out for the evening. They were in front of a townhouse in the city; it was my father's parents house. My mother stood, beautiful, still young looking, with her hair fluffed out around her cafe au lait face, wearing a strapless black fluted dress hugging her curves, and silky black gloves that reached her elbows...my father stood with his arm around her, his other arm holding his black suit jacket over his shoulder casually. He leaned with ease, his head ducked down a little bit, with his toffee gold skin glowing with youth in the late afternoon light. His face was devastatingly handsome, his lips full and sensuous, a ciggarette hanging out of his mouth, with high lean cheekbones, that I'd been so fortunate as to inherit. His blue black hair waved back smoothly and his dark brown eyes were alight with mischeif and a certain sureness that showed in the photograph.

The other was a picture taken with a disposable camera, showing my father sitting on a beige couch in a plain white tee shirt, looking thinner than in the first photograph, but with a tiny light golden skinned body on his lap asleep. Me. About two years old, snoozing peacefully, her ears already pierced where two tiny golden studs perched under a mop of wavy black hair. This was my favorite of the two.

I showed them to Adrian, who looked at me with understanding.

"That sure is a cute kid." He said, handing the pictures back to me.

"Les'enfants, diner!" called a voice from the kitchen.

During our dinner of shrimp and crawdad gumbo, my mother and grandmother mostly questioned Adrian about his life, sensing of course that he and I were more than friends. It was obvious, he being the only man I ever brought home; not even Eric had had that dubious pleasure. Through my families questioning, I learned things that I'd never heard before. All I knew really was that he was from Bangor, Maine and had been raised by his grandmother and great grandmother.

His parents were young, only in high school when he was born on September 24th 1974. Year of the Tiger, my mother commented. They'd been driving home from a movie date a year later when a drunk driver plowed through a red light, smashing them head on. They'd both been fatally injured. His father had died in the hospital and his mother had died en route. His grandmother brought him up from then on. They'd lived in her house, a rustic colonial in the misty pine forest.

He'd been educated at the University of Maine, majoring in philosophy and abnormal psychology; from there he'd moved to Boston and spent a few months, but settled in Salem where he'd been hired by the Institute for his zeal for the subject matter and his apparent psychic abilities. His MRI had shown an unusually large amount of brain activity. I was amazed he was so candid about all this, I'd known him for almost a year and he'd never been so open.

My mother was fascinated and probed him about his experiences, while my grandmother frowned and looked mistrustful. But that wasn't out of the ordinary. She mistrusted most white people, and I felt a sliver of guilt for knowing the reason. Finally they got around to asking us what we were up to at the Institute.

We looked at each other, and Adrian smiled encouragingly. _Go on,_ his eyes said. _Let her know what's coming._

"Well," I said, swallowing my food nervously. "We just got off a case in Virginia. Big old mansion, name of Foxworth Hall."

I'd said it casually enough, but the couple across the ways' expressions shifted yet again; my grandmother, who'd been staring at me with her wrinkled dark brown skin drawn together in a scrutinizing frown, was now wide eyed, her white eyebrows lifted up, almost as if she were afraid. My mother had taken a lightning fast glance at _her _mother then lowered her eyes to her bowl, appearing now to study her food closely.

"That's interesting." she said lightly, too lightly.

She opened her mouth to say something else, probably to change the subject but my grandmother held up her gnarled brown hand, which was enough to make my mother pinch her lips shut. My formidable grandmother patted her sagging lips with her napkin, then she leaned across the table, those deep soulful endless brown eyes riveted on me. In a low gritty voice she said,

"Cette maison a brule a la terre."

I stared at her. Then I answered in a shaking voice,

"Il a ete refait."

Why couldn't my voice be stronger? Her eyes widened even more. She looked furious.

"Non! _Mensonges_!"

She threw her napkin on the table and went to her bedroom. My mother looked at me sadly, her blue eyes imploring mine, _Why did you have to mention that name?_

I put Adrian on the pull out in the living room and I went to put on my nightclothes; a tee shirt and sweatpants. At 11:30 I stalked to my grandmother's room at the end of the hall, my heart heavy.

I knocked on her door softly, opening it when I heard the familiar, _"Entre."_ She was sitting in her rocking chair, which had once sat in the living room. The very one she'd been in when I'd first asked about my mother's blue eyes. And mine. She was watching her late shows as she always had, on her small television. Normally, she'd wave me in and go right on watching her show, but that night, she picked up the remote, or, "the box", as she called it and snapped the TV off, glowering at me. I came into the room and closed the door gently.

"Mamaw, I have to tell you something."

I sat on the floor in front of her, and I proceeded to recount my tale of Foxworth Hall. The curse, Joel, everything. She listened intently, her eyes staying hard, that look of concentration kniting her brows together. When I was finished, I said to her, with tears in my voice,

"I left to ask you, Mamaw, is it true?"

Her dark eyes melded with mine for a few moments, then all of a sudden they became shiny and she buried her face in her hands as tears began to slide down her cheeks, and she shook violently, though not a sound escaped her.

My stomach filled with lead, I'd never, ever seen her cry; it was true.

She seemed to compose herself, wiped her tears away, and called,

"Claudia!"

She pronounced my mother's name, _Clowdia_.

My mother appeared at the door in an instant as if she were standing outside the entire time.

"Oui Maman."

"Venir ici." my grandmother whispered, extending her hand.

My mother came to kneel on the shabby green carpet with me, and my grandmother caught both of our hands in hers, and I couldn't help but think of Chris and Cathy, listening to their mother tell them the story of how she'd fallen in love with her half uncle, secretly her half brother. My grandmother began to speak in french, though we understood every word.

"A long long time ago, I was a singer. It was 1941 and I knew I was something special. My hips swelled out and my hair was long and soft. I have indian blood in me, you see? My lips were full and bloomed out from my face like rose petals and I painted em bright red to make the point! Oh but don't mistake me, I was a good christian girl. But I was in the habit of sneaking away to sing late at night at The Papillon Fille, the butterfly girl. Much the same as you, daughter, sneaking away to meet those boys in the middle of the night, it's a wonder you didn't get pregnant. Oh well, just wasn't your time. But oh, it was such fun singing at that joint. The jazz, the dancing, the revelry; people fighting, and cussing and flirting and falling down drunk! Well one night a stranger came into the spot, the likes of which we colored folk had never seen set foot in the joint who wasn't a cop looking for a handout. He was handsome, I give him that. But you can bet we stopped on the spot when he walked in. He asked to be allowed to play on the piano. Old Jean the owner of the place and the pianist hisself told him to go on to New Orleans and play that swing the whites loved so much. But that young man said, he's a traveller and had been listening outside for hours and just wanted to play some of that sweet stuff, sung by an angel he said."

Here she looked into space, ironically, bitterly remembering Joel's flattery.

"Oh but he was debonair, yes, looking so eager. Jean let him try his hand that old piano, and boy his fingers lit it up! He played so beautiful I just had to open my mouth and sing! The place was quiet while he played and I sang. It aint never been quiet! But us two had em under our spell, but yes! We did. We made magic that night, the both of us, so perfectly matched like rain and the trees. When it was time for me to go, he offered to walk me home, and now I'd heard what white men do to pretty colored gals if given half the chance, but he'd played so beautifully, and I thought God wouldn't give an evil man a gift like that."

I could see it now; my mother began to cry.

"We walked in the moonlight as he told me his name and the rich family he come from up yonder. How his father was a fool and a monster who chased pretty girls while his poor mother only wanted him to love her. And I felt sorry for him, raised with everything, but given no love. Everything needs to be loved, I said. He looked me over, told me I was beautiful, said he knew I had a loving heart. He kissed me, sweet, and tender. And I liked it! Who would have thought rich white man come to love me? He would protect me from the other whites, the hateful ones. He said he was leaving from the port the next day, for Europe! He said, come with me, I will keep you safe. But Europe was dangerous for someone like me. War going over there. So no, I said, I cannot go. He said, then you must leave me with a memory of you. He touched me on my bosom, I slap his hand, with such fear, such fear growing hotter in my shoes. He said, Fine, if you won't give, then I will take!"

She gasped and shuddered, her eyes glistening with tears.

"And he took. Afterward, he left me there, my pretty butterfly dress ruined. No shame in him as he walked away, no regets. I ran home and up the stairs into the attic of the old house, my daddy's house. I take the chalk, I draw the circle on the wood. I use the magic come from Africa. I curse him to never return from the place where hate rules with a fist of iron! I burned that dress in the wood stove. The smoke will burn his lungs for the rest of his days!"

Her eyes were smouldering; hot coals of hatred.

"My menses stopped coming and I was terrified. I worried that I would hate my baby. But you came, and I found out you were innocent, that was God's gift to me. A daughter I could raise to love and never hate. Never be like them. Be open and love everyone. And you were everything I ever wanted you to be."

She cupped my mothers tear soaked face in her hands.

"You grew up strong and healthy, you married, but never had a child. Your husband left you, for a woman he had two children by during your marriage. I thought it was my fault. My fault for cursing your father. Wishing evil upon him, come back on me! Bur your heart healed. You found love again. Strong young man, like a racehorse, bringing his foreign virility to you, like a storm wind through a window. You were thirty five years old; I never thought you'd have children."

She turned her eyes to me, filling them with pride.

"And then here you come. Little bundle of joy. You bawled and bawled and from the moment you came into the world, you fight! Your brave heart gave you the strength to go right up to a gator and poke him with a stick! I knew you would never let a man do to you what was done to me. I saw the resistance in you. Your spirit was so strong. I knew God gave you this strength for a reason. All the while I clipped my tabloids, reading all that my curse had done. Now I find out that my curse was not the curse that burned Foxworth Hall to ashes."

She grabbed my shoulders, hard.

"This curse is more powerful, this hate more deep, Marceline! I fear for you, I fear for your mother! You must stop it, or you'll be dragged down with it! I knew God gave you strength for a reason, this is that reason! You will face this evil and you will defeat it! I will help you, but you must seek someone who knows the gypsy ways. Remember the magic can only be worked by those who believe in it! You got somebody?"

She shook me with the question. Yes. I had somebody. Somebody in the next room. She studied my face.

"But yes, you got somebody." she said gravely.


	11. The Dream

That night I had a long sad dream. I dreamed I was standing on a rocky beach, and the moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas and the sand was illuminated by a fire. Dark haired men and women were laughing; they danced and sang and played music. Some were old and some were very young but all were draped in silky flowing fabrics red, white, green and brown. The women's earlobes, wrists and necks sparkled with dangling silver jewelry. In the distance a castle loomed into veiw on the rocky cliffs overlooking the shoreline, yellow lights burning in it's turrets. Then at the edge of the fire something bright drew everyone's gaze, a lovely young girl, golden haired, dressed in the tudor fashion, with a french hood and wearing a gold necklace. Her belly swelled out in front of her and her pale skin glowed in the firelight. She smiled at them and said something I couldn't understand, as people in dreams often speak. She took off her necklace and gave it to an older woman who called someone's name. An old man with long silver hair drifted over and sat on the sand next to the girl, and carefully he looked at her palm, saying something else I didn't quite hear. She seemed enthralled to be here, learning her future. She smiled at a handsome young man, who was playing a fiddle.

Suddenly the gypsies started, something had drawn their gaze. Then several women screamed as a dozen or more soldiers descended upon the beach, their iron shields glowing dully in the firelight. They laid waste to their camp, grabbing logs from the enormous fire and setting the tents aflame, making the misty sea night a white hot blaze. They rounded up the gypsies, though some escaped into the wild night. Among those captured was the silver haired old man, screaming, bloody, his cries awful to hear.

The scene dissolved and I was walking on a moonlit path, drawn by a strange clanking sound. I came upon a high castle wall, empty but for one tiny window close to the ground. I peered inside and gasped. I was looking down on a terrible dungeon filled with black iron devices; chains, levers, wheels that clanked as they turned. Spots of bright red illuminated the dungeon, spots that were hot metal iron prods that seared the flesh of the gypsies, making them cry out in agony. People lay naked upon the rack, being stretched until their bones snapped with sickening crunches. And that old silver haired man, he was strapped to a chair, and stripped for the humiliation of it; a chair with three inch iron spikes all over it. He was made to sit on high and watch as they tortured his family and friends. He didn't make a sound, only wet tears slid down his face. While men in black hoods did the touturing, a fat friar stood next to a richly dressed man, about fifty, handsome, blonde and bearded. The bearded man nodded to the friar and seemed to congradulate him on his excellent torture skills. Then the friar ordered the black hoods to stop, and he spoke to the room at large, perhaps asking them to confess to witchcraft, as I'd learned in my studies was one of their tricks. They tortured people into confessions, and often they did confess just to make the pain stop. The old man nodded, his tears coming down the whole time.

The scenery changed again.

I stood in a crowd of people in the middle of a town square, where a raised platform stood. Across the way more gypsies were sealed in wooden cages, crying, and screaming. I watched as ten gypsies stood and awaited their turn at the gallows. One by one, they went, holding their bruised and bloody heads high, while the crowd jeered and threw rotten vegetables at them. Some of them spat at the crowd and cursed, but all were suspended, their boots twitching and urine flowing down their legs. At last the old man was led to the nuce. They slipped it around his neck while a priest read his last rites, and the crimes he was charged with. The old man opened his mouth and said something in a strange language. The gypsies in the cages grew quiet, their ashen faces turned hard and solumn. Then the executioner pulled the lever.

The crowd roared, their bloodlust satisfied, and began to disperse. The remaining gypsies were carted away in their wooden cages. I ran through the crowd trying to see where they were being taken. I looked down upon a harbor where a ship swayed in the tide, waiting to take the gypsies away to America, to be slaves for the rich. The dark young man who'd smiled at the wealthy girl on the night of the raid stood in the back. He looked back to the square, his face contorted in rage, and in his hands he clutched a silver locket.

The world became awash in whirling colors while I despaired in what I had seen, but it wasnt over.

When the world reformed I sat in the middle of a smoky room, though not much else had appeared. The longer I looked the more I saw. The glint of short stout glasses filled with amber liquids. The shabby wooden walls, the tiny rickety tables. Black folks hanging over one another, laughing, bouncing, in zoot suits and mermaid skirts. They all had their eyes pointed to a corner of the room where a lovely young thing belted out a tune. She wore a tiny black hat upon her softly waved hair, with what looked like a jeweled fishnet veil coming down over just her eyes, so you could see her lips round and full, rose red, spilling forth sweet melody. She gyrated full, swelling hips in a gold colored dress patterned with black rhinestone butterflies. Her hands wearing white gloves gestured and swayed with her voice. Her eyes sparkled with laughter and youth, she couldn't have been more than sixteen. An old fellow played the piano with dark glasses on and gold tooth that showed for he was smiling so wide. He called to her something, and the other men in the bar whistled and called out too. Then the door opened and a slight pale youth stood there in the amber glow of the room. He held his hat in his hands and spoke softly as though he were frightened. The old man at the piano shouted to him and the other men in the room let out booming laughs. Then for the first time, the youth lifted his eyes and stared at the dark beauty with her golden silk voice. He said something else and the girl gave the old fellow a look. He stood up abruptly and gestured the youth over jerkily. The young man scrambled over, smiling nervously at the girl. He sat at the piano and began to play a smooth melody. The girl smiled as she recognized the slow song and began to sing in such a tone that the occupants of the bar all grew silent and still, and even the bartender froze in the middle of rubbing a glass with a rag. I knew I was crying.

Not wanting to see any more, I ran ran ran for the door and as soon as I threw it open, the colors began whirling again.

I began to see snippets of things, the scenes were going faster. I saw a young blonde with tears streaming down her cheeks, standing on the railing of a bridge while an icy river gushed beneath her, a green cadillac flipping multiple times on a crowded highway, a pale flaxen haired child coughing and gasping, his eyes wide and staring as he tried to hold on to life, a young man in a hospital bed cutting his feeding tube with tears in his eyes, a short blonde girl stuffing white doughnuts into her mouth one after another, crying all the while, another young man coughing and heaving with a brittle old woman in his arms, while a fire roared behind him, an older dark haired man, crumpling softly to the ground on a beautiful summer day, a horrifiying scene of a woman on fire, and finally an elderly woman holding a chestnut haired baby in her arms, crying for the loss of her son and his teenage bride. I rushed out the door of that old rustic colonial house, blinded by tears, into the misty pine forest all around.

As I ran away from the death, the pain, and the shocking heaviness of all those burdens that were mine to bear now, it began to snow. The snow turned into a blizzard, and soon the world was a white wash with dark trees standing tall. I stumbled into a clearing, the snow billowed all around me. I was shivering so much and my feet were so numb that I fell into the snow to die like all the others. I waited for death to come and take me. Then, faintly I saw a light ahead of me. I lifted my head to stare as a white orb drifted through the trees. As it reached the clearing, it materialized into the form of a blonde girl, wearing a white early twentieth century dress. Her clothes were so bright it made the surrounding snow look grey. She came to me, a luminous happiness on her face. There was an odd glow about her, like her skin was giving off energy. She reached down and touched me and suddenly I had the strength to rise. Corinne reached out and touched my arm and I felt warmth from her fingertips.

More lights began to appear in the trees, moving closer all the time, and when they reached the clearing, they became people I recognized. Three lights had turned to three people with beautiful strong muscular bodies and dark hair; wearing white leotards. Dancing parents and their boy came toward me and put their hands on my body. Another light came and Bart Winslow touched me. Two more lights; Paul and Henny come to lend me their strength. Then came two young teenagers, with faces so like Adrians'. A family of four: beautiful blonde twins, ushered by their smiling young parents. Olivia, not so tall at last, her face so soft, less harsh, stolen youth restored, she held Alicia's hand; friends at last. Finally a man came toward me with dark brown eyes and golden skin-my own father! He looked at me with such pride. He took my chin in his hand and kissed my forehead. They all kept their hands on me, smiling lovingly, and I cried tears of shock, looking at my unknown family of the dead who seemed more alive than ever. Their eyes said quietly, _we're with you. _

As I woke in my teenage bed, with the afteroon sunlight streaming in, I cried, but not with sadness, with a strange mixture of joy and surprise.

I went into the living room to find Adrian fully dressed and playing cards with my mother while my grandmother sat on the back porch in her rocker. My mother was laughing heartily, and I sensed something satisfied in her. Perhaps now that she knew who her father was, she'd found that inner peace she was always chanting about.

"Sleep much?" he said, his eyes smiling.

I stuck out my tongue at him as I headed for the bathroom.

That evening after dinner, as Adrian and I prepared for our redeye flight to Maine, my grandmother pressed into my hands a large wooden box. She said it contained what I needed to do my part in eradicating the curse and cleansing the house. Then she and my mother both kissed me and said farewell, giving Adrian glowing looks of approval. As I stared out of my small window, watching the lights of the Big Easy drift by below me, I wondered what life would be like the next time I saw my mother and grandmother. I wondered what kind of tale I'd have for them then. One of victory? Or one of crushing defeat?


	12. Adrian

The plane sank through a seemingly impenetrable, swollen cloud bank and descended upon a mottled gray and green world.

As Adrian guided me through the city to a place we could rent a car, I realized that Maine was one of those strange places, set apart from the rest of the world, by something indescribable. The people went about their day ordinarily enough, but there was something about them, something one could spend an eternity trying to put their finger on. The only word I can use is strange, almost mystical. They seemed secretive, talking only to those they knew. Almost like the people in that little Virgina town, only a whole city full of them.

Adrian drove now, on a twisted road through an ancient pine forest. The trees were huge, protected by the state. They had an air of sentience about them, like they saw everything that went on around them. They seemed prehistoric, like they'd seen man rise from the ape, and the many disasters that overtook the land and still they stood; proud, old, and wise. They were shrouded in mist and watched us silently as we glided past.

After a time we came upon the house. The same one that I'd seen in my dream. It was an old colonial, painted white with light blue trim. The windows were lit during the day, for it was so gray and misty.

As we parked in the front drive, Adrian hesitated. He stared at the house almost sadly, as if haunted by his memories. It did seem to be a lonely, dreary place. I could almost see young Adrian, playing pretend in the forest alone, or perhaps already conversing with the spirits he saw. A face peeked from behind a curtain at us. Then the front door opened wide and an elderly woman in round glasses and a long blue jean shirt was hurtling down the front steps toward her grandson, who was half running to greet her. Even with the tumolt in my life to distract me, I still admired Adrian. In his brown leather jacket and dark denim jeans, he looked like a male model from behind; his chin length hair trailed behind him so effortlessly. He spread his long arms wide and wrapped them around his grandmother. Her slate gray hair was tied back in a pony tail, and she still held a dishcloth in her hand as she squeezed him around his shoulders. Her closed eyes seemed to turn up toward heaven as if she were grateful he'd come back to her safe and sound. I stepped out of the car immeadiately knowing I would like her.

"You should have called! I would have made something to eat, you're too skinny! Oh, but I'm so happy to see you!"

"It was short notice," Adrian said apologetically, but she'd spotted me by then. She gasped and looked at him excitedly.

"Adrian! A girl? A real live girl!?"

Then she was striding toward me, smiling, all eyes.

"Hi, sweetheart, I'm Cheryl, Adrians' grandma."

"Hi, I'm Marceline. Adrians'-" Just what was I, exactly? I looked at Adrian, who shrugged. "-friend." I finished lamely.

She threw an arm around me.

"Oh I see, you're going old school, well don't worry, I'm ALL about the old school. Sorry dear, I'm just a little nuts! You'll get used to it."

She was beaming at me, and I found I was smiling too, as she guided me into the house, asking what sorts of things I liked to eat.

"We can't stay long, we have to get back to work soon." Adrian called to her.

She turned and glared at him over her shoulder, then waved an impatient hand. I looked back at him, sticking my tongue out, and she laughed raucously.

Once inside the house, I had to admire the rooms. They were also light blue, with polished hardwood floors, and I suppose Adrians' grandmother had a penchant for the seashore, since there were all sorts of nautical and maritime objects around. Mason jars full of tiny white seashells graced the polished surfaces, and paintings of clipperships were on all the walls. There were lobster and nets and anchor accents and an old wooden sign over the kitchen that proclaimed: Fresh Caught Lobster $2.00. There were many gilded picture frames with smiling people, children, teenagers, adults and their children. I didn't know Adrian had such a big family.

"My Henry was in the Navy and we just loved the ocean, God rest his soul, you would have loved him, Marceline. He was a riot." She said, as I looked around at everything. The house smelled pleasently of poperi, which I saw lying in discreetly placed large half clam shells in some places.

I looked at the black and white picture she indicated of a youth in his uniform, as Adrian came in with our overnight bags; we'd left our trunks in storage in Virginia. I'd made him do so, because I wanted to make sure we'd come back and confront the house, one way or another.

"Adrian, go say hi to your Nana."

His Grandmother looked at him pointedly. He nodded and she touched his arm as he passed, and went through a door leading off the kitchen that I'd thought was a pantry. I knew his Great Grandmother was still alive, because I'd asked: She was only one who'd been raised by a full blooded Romanian-_her_ mother. Adrian told me she was one hundred and two years old. We were lucky she was still living...or _un_lucky.

Adrians' grandmother poured me a glass of homemade lemonade, ("With just a splash of the good stuff!" she'd said, winking.) and after pouring one for herself, guided me to a comfortable blue sofa with soft fluffy cushions, while she sat in a worn old lounger. A grandfather clock chimed from the hallway uptstairs.

"You're the first girl Adrians' ever brought home. I thought for a while, he might be, you know..." she said with a giggle. "Don't misunderstand!" she added at the look on my face which she interpreted as discomfort. "I'd love Adrian if he was purple and wanted to be a scientologist, I'm just saying he never dated much."

She slurped loudly.

"So what brings you all the way out to bumblefuck?"

I couldn't help but laugh, taking a swig from my drink.

"It's a work thing," I said lightly. She looked at me with one eyebrow raised, her cheeks already looking rosy.

"Mmmhmm!" she said, taking a deep draft of her drink. She was smiling crookedly, as if she already knew there was more to it than that.

She soon set about making dinner, clam chowder, a Maine favorite. Adrian helped her, while I sat at the kitchen table, enjoying my second glass of hard lemonade which was deliciously sour and sweet. Cheryl chattered on about the goings on of people she and Adrian knew, throwing me a question about my life occasionally. ('Princeton!' she'd exclaimed, when I told her where I was educated. 'Oh Adrian, she's a keeper! Ivy League!') All and all, I enjoyed her chit chat immensely, and her bubbly, wry nature. I thought Adrian's childhood must have been, not bleak at all, but very enjoyable if her late husband had been as playful and fun as she was.

Soon it was time to eat and I thought I would meet Adrians' great grandmother at last, but instead, Adrian carried _her_ dinner on a tray into her room.

"Poor thing, she can barely get around anymore, lucky we have that guest room with it's own adjoining bath." Cheryl said in her light, breezey way.

We ate the clam chowder with crunchy bread balls in it, which was delectable, while laughing at the funny stories Cheryl told about Adrian's childhood.

"So it's three o'clock in the morning and I'm out of bed thinking, what the hell is that noise? It sounded like, 'rowwwwr, FLUSH'."

I was in stitches. Adrian was smiling, red and embarassed.

"And damned if this boy didn't have the cat in the toilet bowl, pulling the plunger. I said, 'what are you doing?' and he said, 'cat need bath!' Poor Pooper was soaked to the skin."

"Wait, wait the cats' name was _Pooper_?" I was cracking up.

"Well sure, his shit stunk up the whole house!" she giggled, her cheeks rose red. "Oh but you loved Pooper, didn't you? You were only about three."

"Yeah, I loved him." Adrian was smiling, staring off into space, as happy in his memories as I had been in mine.

Later, when the dishes were washed and put away, Cheryl lit herself a ciggarette and eyeballed us over her sixth (!) lemonade and vodka.

"So children, why don't you tell me why you're really here?" she looked at us knowingly.

I threw Adrian a panicked glance. He looked at his grandmother impassively.

"Now, come on, is it really that bad?" she asked. Her eyes were kind.

I looked at Adrian, and he nodded. We sat down again.

As I spoke, Cheryl did nothing more than nod her head and say 'mmm' and 'oh my' and occasionally light another ciggarette. Her face remained calm the entire time, except when she frowned a little bit as though we were describing what engine troubles we had to a mechanic. When the tale (that was growing longer and longer every time I told it,) was ended, she said,

"I have to admit, I thought you two came here to tell me you were pregnant, Marceline."

Her face cracked open in a smile.

"Thank God it's not that." Then she laughed. _Laughed!_ "Don't worry kids, you came to the right place. But let's talk about it tomorrow, Mother goes to bed early."

She stood, putting her cigarette out in a large ashtray shaped like a scallop.

"Why don't you guys get showers and head to bed. I'm sure you're exhausted. And Marceline, no sneaking to Adrian's room in the middle of the night. Sleep with him! You're both grown; there's no secrets in this house."

A house with no secrets! Imagine.

Adrian and I ascended the stairs with our bags over our shoulders. He opened the first door on the right, _his_ teenage room.

His ivy green painted room was far less cluttered than mine, with only a few posters on the walls, one featuring Bob Marley. Some complicated model airplanes hung from the ceiling, a television sat on a stand against the far wall. His queen sized bed with a dark blue comforter sat high on a rich mahogany bed frame. A picture of the two happy teenagers from my dream stood on the nightstand with a digital alarm clock.

After we were showered and dressed, we heard a door close at the end of the hall. We lay together in his bed, watching the TV for perhaps a half hour or forty five minutes.

"Sleepy?" Adrian asked, turning to me on his elbow.

"Nah. You?"

He shook his head.

"Wanna go outside for a few minutes?" He asked, a smile bending his lips.

"Sure," I said, wondering what he had up his sleeve.

He got up and opened his chest of drawers. I watched, amazed as he pulled the drawer out and reached inside the hollow space.

"I wonder if it's still here." He murmured.

To my surprise and delight, he pulled out a plastic bag, then took several bags out of it, like an absurd parody of a russian doll. In his hands he held a paper sack, and out of that he pulled out a ziplock bag containing a big green nugget. He opened the bag and sniffed it gingerly, then he said,

"Still fresh." he threw me a wicked smile.

Out the back door we slipped, silent as death, then we were walking. Adrian held my hand and was leading me to the place he used to play as a child, that later became his secret place to smoke.

As we walked through the forest that seemed to slowly exhale and breathe in, I realized that he was leading me to the very same clearing I'd run to in my dream of the dead. We came upon the edge of the clearing and Adrian bent to light cheap white candles he'd arranged on a twisted whithered old stump. As the wicks illuminated my snowless dream place, I clutched his leather jacket around me closer. I felt the knot in my stomach squirm as I thought of what still remained to do. I wished I could have forgotten, I wished we'd come to this special place unencumbered with burdens that seemed too big for us. Adrian put the j to his lips and lit it, taking a long drag and staring around his softly lit personal hideaway.

"This place is very special." he said as he exhaled smoothly; no coughing.

"Do tell." I said, taking the joint for my turn.

"This is a vortex." he said, his eyes aglow in the soft flickering light.

I stared at him, then collapsed in a short fit of coughing.

"What's a vortex?" I choked out.

"A vortex is a place of invisible high energy concentrations, it's origins are magnetic, like a grid of crossed powerlines. The tug and pull creates a depression and tears a tiny hole in space-time. It scares animals, and twists plant life. Can't you see that the trees are arranged in a perfect circle? They don't grow in the center. Hear any crickets or a frog? Nope. It's a gateway. I used to come here and let it take me over. If I let my mind get quiet enough, I used to hear things, like whispers in my head. If it was daytime, you could see the depression in the middle. It almost looks like a sinkhole, but it's not."

I stared into the darkness trying to peirce it with my eyes.

We smoked in silence for a while and I began to feel giddy and excited that I was in such a place. Also a little afraid.

"I would have thought you'd know about it." he said, putting the joint out and taking out his cigarettes.

"I have heard of it. I just didn't know what it was."

His eyes smiled and then he stooped and blew out the candles. At first it was pitch black, but for the red glow of our cigarettes. Then slowly the outline of the trees began to appear. Then I could see into the circle. As I looked into the darkness, I began to see what looked like swirls, undulating spirals of the darkness itself. We were completely silent, watching the swirls move and twist around one another. Shapes began to emerge, nothing recognizable, just pulsing masses of black. Then two things happened very fast; I heard what sounded like a twig break, then an unintelligible whisper in my ear, very close. It was lightning fast, but it was so real, I felt the warmth and air burst of the person's breath hit my ear.

I uttered one small shriek and ran to hide my face in Adrian's chest. He laughed.

"Are you really that scared?"

"No-yes..I don't know."

He laughed again; his shoulders shook under me. I laughed nervously, pulling back to look up at him in the darkness. I could only see the outline of his hair, but I knew he was looking back at me. I felt his smile.

"You are so..."

So what? He clicked his teeth as if he couldn't find the right word. Then he bent his head down and kissed me, warmly and deeply, his lips parted and his tongue came out to play with mine. He held me close to his body and I felt my knees becoming weak, my heart pounding, my body sending pleasure messages to my sensitive areas. We were kissing heavily, enhanced because of the weed, and I felt the area ahead of me growing more stirred, as if the energy our bodies created was feeding it. We were almost overcome by our passion when Adrian stopped and touched my face with his hand, still holding me against his body with his other hand. His breath was shallow and moist against my lips.

"I love you." he breathed. He buried his face in my neck, planting small kisses as he said it over and over again.

"Adrian." I whispered, letting out the tiniest little moan with his name. He kissed my throat a little more passionately. He clutched me to him tightly, not asking to hear it back. Not needing to. He already knew. He told me later that he knew it when I'd said his name.


	13. The Plan

I couldn't remember the last time I'd woken up so peacefully. The pleasent smell of Adrian was on my naked body as he turned over and slid his arm under mine and over my waist. He plunged his face into my hair and neck, seeming to admire my own exotic human perfume. A bit of sunlight streamed through the windows which was refeshing after so much grey. The dust motes danced in a tiny unseen windstorm, while Adrian and I drank each other in. It was so soothing to hold his body against mine after a long refreshing nights' sleep. I felt I might drown in the sensuality of it.

There came a sharp knock on the door, bringing me out of my reverie.

"Hey lovers, breakfast! Oh wait, I'm sorry, 'friends', breakfast! Sure didn't sound like 'friends' last night!"

I heard a hearty laugh, then footfalls on the stairs.

"Your grandmas awesome." I said, sitting up on my elbow and giving him a grin.

"She's already drunk." Adrian said, rolling over and glancing at the clock. Ten o'two am.

I got up and stretched. I pulled on my discarded pajamas.

"Hey," I said to him.

"What?" he replied sleepily.

"I love you."

He raised his tired eyes and half smiled. I turned on my heel and raced to the bathroom, as giddy as a sixteen year old. I can't tell you how wonderful it was to feel that way again.

We were clustered around the table, utensils scraping on plates of eggs and toast. Cheryl was into her third cup of "coffee" and was strangely silent. When she got up and put the plates in the sink, she said casually over her shoulder,

"You've got that book and locket with you right?"

"Yes." I said anxiously.

"You'd better go and get them. I explained to mother some of what you told me last night. She'll want to see those. And that box your grandmother gave you."

I went upstairs and retrieved those things. Cheryl looked at the objects in my arms and said heavily, with a sigh,

"Okay. Mother's out on the back porch. This way."

She led us through another door in the kicthen, through a short hallway, to a screen door.

* * *

The back porch was a raised wooden platform, unpainted, with four posts holding up its roof. Many little windchimes clinked together. Moons, stars, and hummingbird pendulums swayed in a gentle breeze. The woman herself was sitting in a white wicker lounger, her elbows resting on the arms and her frail hands in her lap. She wore glasses with redicuously thick pearly lenses, her skin was almost transparent, peppered all over with liver spots. She wore some sort of whispery pale pink nightgown and matching silk housecoat that covered her entirely. Her feet were in fluffy white slippers. Her wrists had silver bangles going up six inches and she wore a silver pendant. Her face was truly so wrinkled that you couldn't really say what she'd looked like in youth. It was as if she were born old. Her nose was an eagles beak. Her hair was stark white and thinning severely but still shoulder length and wavy.

"Mother." Cheryl said gently.

The old woman turned in her chair and looked at the three of us beadily. Her brown eyes with yellow whites appeared bulgey in those glasses, making her look startled. She roved her eyes over me quickly and held out a perpetually shaking hand.

I wasn't sure what to do, when she jerked her hand at me, jingling her bangles, holding her palm open.

"Give her the book." Cheryl nudged.

I hurried to give her book and she clicked her tongue impatiently. She ran her whithered hand over the cover and seemed to whispering to herself. We all moved closer to her in a group, and she jerked up and looked at us like we were crazy. She waved her hand away from herself, making a noise that sounded like "kyeh!" We backed off.

She opened the book to the first page and her bug eyes began to rake it. So for an hour and a half she read the book, shaking her head, frowning, and making tiny noises in her throat. She mumbled from time to time. It seemed to me that when she was moving, her whole body shook but for her legs. In every way she appeared senile, but there was something about her that made me reconsider.

Cheryl was sitting on the stoop, looking tired. Adrian and I were leaning against the railing of the porch, when we heard the cover of the book slam shut. We all jerked upright to see Adrians' great grandmother shakily sliding the book onto the low wicker table in front of her. She gestured to me again and this time I knew what she wanted.

I put the chain of the heavy, tarnished silver locket into her hands and her eyes actually did bulge at it. She made a sound like "mmMM" in her throat as she turned it over in her hands, finally prying it open with her fingers. A small flurry of dust came out and I moved closer to see what was inside. It was a miniature painting of the silver haired man on one side of brown spotted glass, and on the other side it was a mirror painting of a gray haired woman. I was startled as I remembered seeing that woman being tortured in the dungeon with a hot iron rod, and later hung. It made sense now. The Timekeeper was destroying the Foxworths not for what was done to him, but for what they did to _her_. "Mother" flicked her eyes between the paintings and clicked her tongue rapidly. Then she closed the locket with a snap and tossed it onto the table with the book.

"Okeh!" she said sitting back, and turning her head towards me. Even her heavy nasal voice shook. "You wanna breaka dis curse?"

She'd said it almost skeptically. I nodded. She grabbed the sleeve of my sweatshirt and pulled me down to kneel in front of her and clasped my shoulder. I was deeply surprised by the strength of her grip. She leaned down, shaking like a chihuahua in Antarctica, until she was inches from my face.

"It's not going to be easy!" She pointed a gnarled finger at me. "Generations have puut their energy into dis curse. Very strong! Someone with blood ties must do dis! Gather as much of the family as you can. They must draw out the spirit! Any means may be use, as long as they believe. They must believe! When the spirit is drawn out, you will know, because tings start to happen! When the spirit is drawn out you must pierce the object wit dis."

She reached over to a fold in her robe and pulled out something wrapped in a black cloth. She unfolded it to reveal a silver dagger with a black laquered handle. I could tell by looking at it that it was very old and very sharp. She rewrapped it and handed it to me.

"When you pierce the personal object with dis blade it will burst outward. Cut the spirit loose! I was told you were given a means to do dis."

I scrambled to give her the box my grandmother had given me. She opened it and rifled through it for a moment, then pulled out a sheet of paper with ink on both sides.

"Circle gateway mmm...yes." she put it back into the box, and gave it back to me. Then she grabbed me again and said loudly. "Once you have opened the circle you must not break it! Or the spirit curse will remain!"

I must have looked frightened because she added in a softer tone,

"If you should fail, know this. A curse not relentless. It's alive and it will die in its' own time, just like person. But no way to tell who it will take wit it!"

She considered me for a moment then she said,

"My Adrian has a second sight. He sees the spirits around him and he talks to dem. You different. You see tings happened long ago. You have magic from Africa, dis magic strong! Go back to the beginning of man! Draw on dis...when you do it."

She waved her hand, indicating that we should go.

I scooped up the objects, and as we walked to the screen door, she said, without turning her head,

"Dis ting you are doing is dangerous. Tread carefully."

We waited for her to say something more, but she waved her hand again, and then she sighed.

* * *

We were travelling again. Our last pilgrimage. We were utterly silent as the greyhound bus bounced along. Of course we couldn't fly with a razor sharp stabbing weapon in our carry on luggage. Adrian held my hand as he stared out at the rolling black hills we passed. He had a hard look on his face, determined. I on the other hand, was thinking backward. Wishing I could have stayed with Adrian at his grandmothers' house and forgotten the whole lot. We could have languished in his room and smoked and listened to his Marley CDs and let ourselves be young and deeply in love.

The love I had, oh yes. I saw it in every glance Adrian bestowed upon me. But the youth, the youth was falling away in pieces, like peeling wallpaper. Every day since I'd first set foot in Foxworth Hall had seen me advancing in years emotionally. And I'd thought all my naievity was gone and all my innocence evaporated, yet I saw that there had been more to lose. I had read of a murder plot and its shattering reverberations, seen a corpse, read of a curse, listened to a story of rape; a rape that had created me, and then I had accepted a dagger. Oh yes, I had lost what shreds of innocence I had left; what else could I lose?

But that's just it isn't it? Things are never so bad that they can't get worse. _Isn't that right, Cathy?_


	14. Thin

There it sat, like a king upon his throne. Foxworth Hall, appearing just as it had when I'd first seen it. New, and fresh, yet not so. I tried to imagine the way it looked before the fire. If it radiated malignance now, I wondered how it had effected people before. Perhaps no one noticed. No, I don't think they would. I was of the opinion that the rich didn't notice much outside of their personal world. As I looked on and on, not wanting to get out of the car, my stomach writhed and flipped and I felt a curious tingling sensation in my fingers and toes. I was frightened, more frightened than I'd ever been in my entire life. I tried to deny my fears, tried to put on a brave face, but when it came down to it, my entire being trembled, body, mind, and soul.

Adrian and I stood under the portico, knocking at the door sharply. For one shining, wonderful moment, I thought everyone had left. Patrick had concluded his report, Bart had taken off to Richmond, and Joel...well, he wouldn't answer the door for me.

Instead, my gut summer-saulted as Bart flung the door open. His hair was disheveled, he looked furious that someone would have the indecency to bang on his door like the police. At that moment he struck me as a dark stallion, whipping his legs against a backdrop of thunder and lightning. Completely without control or restraint. Then he took in the sight of us. His eyes narrowed at me, and I knew at once that he'd been told who I was. It was written all over his suspicious and seething eyes.

"I knew _you'd_ be back!" He snarled. Then he whirled around and stalked inside, leaving the door open.

I led the way in, without being invited. Bart watched us as we closed the heavy door. Then he started walking briskly to that slap dash office.

Armed only with the book and the locket, we followed him silently. Once inside, he threw himself in his chair behind the desk. Joel stood in a darkened corner of the room. I tried not to look at him.

"How much?" Bart asked, his right hand over his face, as if this was all too much for him to bear.

"I'm not here for money." I said quietly, and I was surprised to find out that my voice didn't quake. It had a silky tone to it, dangerous, almost. Bart looked at me; shock flitted across his face. He threw a look at Joel, who gazed back in a way I wasn't sure how to interpret. Then he drew his brows together and scoweled.

"I don't believe it." He said, looking at me like I'd already stolen the cash from his wallet. "Not for a minute. You wouldn't have come back if it wasn't for the money."

I could almost hear Joel: _"She'll deny it of course, but her family is very poor. She'll want it for herself. I don't, of course, because I was a monk and money turns men to evil. I dare not take it."_

I didn't have time for these games.

"I'm not that kind of Foxworth." I began in a low voice, feeling my anger flaring up again. That strange anger that burned as wildfire, blazing through the night. All it required was a spark. "If you have EVER had a thought that was remotely your own and not influenced by some PIOUS OLD MAN then you will listen to me! Your life, and the lives of those you love depends on it!"

He was speechless for a moment, and I took my chance. I slammed the old book down on the table in front of him. In that low silk voice I said,

"You see before you, the accounts of Corinne Foxworth the firsts' family. Your _Grandmother_, Joel. It's mostly in Old Romanian, which we had interpreted when we left. But the last few entries are in english and I suggest that you read them yourself. I don't want to waste my breath."

I flipped open the book to the english section and shoved it under Bart's nose. I knew it was really him that I had to convince in the end, for it struck me that Bart was like me. If he became convinced of something, he would not be swayed. Bart began to read it, and Joel crept up out of the shadows to peer at it, and with a look on his face I wasn't accustomed to seeing: it was fear.

After they'd read it, they were a study in contrasts. Bart's face had taken on a childish look, one of doubt. He moved his eyes around as if he wasn't quite sure where he should point them. Joel, on the other hand, stared straight ahead, trying not to show anything that was going through his mind by appearing dumbfounded. I cleared my throat.

"The Church won't send an exorcist." I said. My anger had dissipated by this time. Because they had read it, and seemed to comprehend the implications, I suppose I felt more relaxed that I'd gotten this far without being physically ejected. I was amazed that I was prepared to be physically ejected if nessecary. I sighed for how I'd changed since coming to this house.

Bart resurfaced from his mind a little.

"But Durwood said that The Church had to reveiw the evidence."

"Patrick is trained to say that to everybody who requests an exorcism. The Catholic church is very..._selective_ about exorcism. They rarely do them anymore. The modern church doesn't want to appear medieval. They want to attract new converts. Anyway this isn't even a demon possesion, so they wouldn't send you an exorcist under the best of circumstances."

Bart glanced over his shoulder at Joel, who put his eyes to the floorboard, still stone silent. As I watched him, I recognized disappointment flicking past in those eyes, so like mine.

"The workers never complained of ghosts, did they?" I asked, glancing from one to the other.

Bart looked away, embarassed. But Joel raised his eyes to look me straight in the face for the first time. He looked at me shrewdly as though we were playing chess and I had just cornered the King.

"This house must be cleansed." he said, in a throaty whisper.

I let out a short laugh.

"I couldn't agree more." I said.

I briefly explained that I carried provisions to break the curse and "cleanse" the house.

"Witchcraft!" Joel exclaimed, staring at me in horror, like I'd sprout wings and spit acid in another moment.

"If the curse was cast by a gypsy, then gypsy magic is the only thing that can break it! Honestly, you can preform whatever ritual you like. Say the rites of exorcism, you're a monk, you must know them! Immerse yourself in your beliefs but the cleanse must be carried out by blood relations! You have a little gypsy blood in you, whether you like it or not. It's the only way!"

Bart sat staring off into space, wide eyed, shaking his head inperceptilby, as if he were wondering how the hell he had woken up on a normal day and ended up talking about magic curses.

"Listen," I said, desperate, now. "Just do this with me, and I swear on my life, and those of my colleagues, that I will never darken your doorway again."

Bart and Joel looked at each other, and then the latter shrugged.

"Prepare yourselves, and be in the foyer at midnight."

Patrick glared at us as we opened the door to his room. He had his equipment stowed in the trunk, and appeared to be making his final notes. He looked first to Adrian with something resembling sourness, and then he turned his eyes on me, and it made my heart heavy to see pain there. He turned back to his table, writing again, pushing his glasses up his nose. At first I thought he'd resigned himself not to speak to us, but then he said,

"What do you want? I told you, I don't need you."

"We're cleansing the house tonight." I said. I knew that even through his anger, and his horrible sadness, he would be interested. In any case, I heard the pen stop scratching on the paper.

"So?" he said, turning slightly.

"So, I think you should be there and film it. You might catch something very ground breaking."

He sighed, then turned and looked at me. I stared at him hopefully. If he caught something really spectacular on camera, he just might forgive us. His eyes registered my hope, my attempt to reach out to him. He opened his mouth for a moment then closed it again, exhaling heavily through his nose. He turned back to the table and nodded his dark red head slightly.

As I sat in what was my room, going through the box, and attempting to prepare myself, the lead knot in my stomach grew larger and heavier. I began to feel a nervous twitter in my breast. I became restless. I prowled the room, not really doing anything. I picked up the instructions my grandmother had written for me, and saw the words as only jumbled symbols. I looked around the room, and it seemed too bright. It began to look strange to me. It was as though it were, _thin_, somehow. Like all the furniture, the walls, even the world outside was just a thin layer of a fake reality, covering the true reality. I had a wild urge to rush to the walls and tear away that fakeness, that awful thin screen over what was really there. It was too clean, too rich, so very thin. That little nervous bird in my chest flittered harder, trying to break out. I couldn't relax, I couldn't focus. I tried to find my resolve, my determination to do what was right, not just for those Foxworths who survived, but for myself as well. I was disturbed to find I couldn't shake my tension. I realized it was fear; fear so strong I had blocked it out instrinctively to protect myself. But I knew, just knew there was something else. It was like I had forgotten something, missed some crucial step. It's like leaving your wallet at the restaurant. You feel mostly normal, but something just isn't right. The world becomes thin. Sometimes you don't even notice it, but sometimes you do. You wonder what it is that's so important. You feel frustrated, because it's staring you right in the face, but you still can't make out what it is. I went on like this for some time.

Then Adrian was at the door. His face was whiter than usual, but otherwise his face was as always, impassive.

"It's time." he said.

Already? No, no, no. I wasn't in the right state of mind yet. It just couldn't be time. I strode over to the desk and picked up my watch. I'd put it there to stop myself from checking it obsessively.

11:45.

I shakily tried to fasten it to my wrist and promptly dropped it. I put my quaking hand to my lips and tried to fight back the tears that wanted to spill out. Why was I so damned afraid? Adrian stepped forward and picked it up, then took my hand in his own and put it on me as tenderly as a mother attending a baby. When it was on, he continiued to hold my hand as I scooped up the box and take the long walk downstairs. My feet were leaden and I felt a numbness in my mind. The hall was dimly lit and the silence so complete, I felt like _I_ was the ghost, haunting the corridor. The only thing I could feel was the warmth of Adrian's hand in mine. That warmth was what kept my feet moving forward, knowing he was there, gave me enough strength to continiue to the end of this strange story.

At the top of the stairs, I looked down on a curious scene.

Someone, Joel perhaps, had lit candles, which barely covered the darkness that mammoth room could contain. It was cast in a golden glow, like in days of yore. It was barren, unfinished, which added to it's cavernous effect. Three people stood on the untiled, rough concrete floor.

The sight of Joel in his brown homespun habit was startling. He had his hood up and his hands clasped together with a rosary in his fingers. I was suddenly reminded of the spectral figure on the front of my fathers' book. Bart looked as though he were going to a funeral. He wore a black suit and tie, and his hair was combed back from his temples, his expression solumn. He bowed his head as he stood next to Joel, glancing reverently at his uncle from time to time. Patrick, in contrast wore a plaid shirt and his usual ripped jeans, and was busy fiddling with his camera and tripod. He'd set up in the front of the room, nearest the windows, with the camera facing inward. We began our decsent.

All three turned to look at us, King and Queen of the night, looking down upon our prey. Patrick scoweled at Adrian, his eyes flicking to our clasped hands. Joel stared at me appraisingly, sizing me up. Bart's face was fearful, extremely pale, and as he noticed us it looked for a moment as if he might throw up. At the bottom, Adrian released my hand, and as the warmth left me, I felt that thinness close it's jaws around me once again.

I immeadiately set to work, getting down on my hands and knees in the center of the room, to draw a circle on the concrete with the single piece of chalk that came from my box. I drew an eye at the top, a hand at the bottom, and symbols I didn't recognize on the sides. I put two lines in the circle, making a cross with four equal quadrants. I took out the bag of salt and poured it around the parimeter. Then I took out a pin and drove it into my index finger. I sucked in my breath from the pain then I let a single drop of blood fall onto each of the four points. The circle was ready.

Next I took out a wooden bowl, and I poured some dried herbs into it. Into this bowl I also poured a bottle of some special water. I mixed the contents with my hands. I stood and nodded to the others who'd been watching me do this silently.

"Please stand at the four points."

They came forward. Joel, his hands squeezing his rosary so tightly, it's a marvel it didn't snap, standing in the north point. Bart, looking sick, standing in the east. Adrian, pulling the silver locket out of his pocket and placing it in the center of the cross, stood in the south. And finally me, holding the bowl in my hands, standing in the west point, in front of Patrick, who switched on his camera. I heard the electronic beep that signaled he was recording.

I opened my mouth to recite the words that I'd spent days memorizing. As I did so, Joel began to intone softly in latin.

"Cleanse this family." I dipped my fingers in the solution and flicked the drops into the circle onto the locket, trying to imagine that old gypsy man being washed out, as if swept away in a flood.

"Cleanse this room."

Flick.

"Cleanse this house."

Flick.

"Our eyes are blind, our lives out of control, let the water run down."

Flick.

"Let the water run down."

Flick.

"Let the water run down."

Flick.

Nothing. Not a shadow, not a change in temperature. Nothing. I heard Patrick sigh.

I had another trick up my sleeve. One I'd come up with entirely on my own. I picked up another item I'd brought down. It was my violin. I took it out and began to play the song I'd heard the young man playing on the beach in my dream. I'd always had the ability to hear a tune and remember it fairly well the next day. As I played I _did_ feel something. Something stirred and woke in the dark corners of the room. I played on, while Joel continiued to chant. I imagined the dungeon, focused on the old woman being tortured. _She deserved it, she deserved it, _I thought over and over. I was baiting him.

It happened so quickly, that now when I think of it, it makes my flesh crawl. Oh, the _speed_ of it was frightening alone. I am determined to tell of this properly.

Well, it felt like a gust of wind rushed by me, into the circle itself, from all four corners, meeting in the center. The candles in the room all went out at once. As we were all plunged into darkness, someone, or maybe all of us let out a gasp. There was a moment, a split second, when the air around us suddenly felt so heavy, so pregnant, and nothing moved, or made any sort of noise. I don't believe any of us even breathed. It was as if time had stopped. Then I saw a glint in the darkness; Adrian was raising the silver dagger. Something was happening in the circle, the darkness seemed thicker, and it moved independantly, forming shapes. Then I saw it. A spectral face, made out of the darkness itself, staring at me. It was like a skull with eyes, transparent skin stretched taut, and it was _smiling_.

Bart let out some sort of strangled yell and he and Joel turned and fled.

"NO!" I screamed after them.

It was too late, the circle was broken. I felt myself being engulfed by something, something strong. It felt like being bombarded by a wave in the ocean. I heard laughing, high pitched, and it grew in pitch, until it sounded like a sort of squeal, and made my eardrums pound. It came from all sides, it was all around me; horrible sick laughter. I was lifted bodily and slapped across the face by an invisble hand. It was such a hard blow that I was instantly dazed, and I fell to the floor. As I twisted and fell, I felt something rush by overhead, and I heard a loud crash. I felt a sharp pain in my side and I smacked the hard concrete.

The foyer was flooded in harsh hallogen light. The first thing I noticed was the glass. Hundreds of shards of glass littering the floor, sparkling like jewels. Some were plate sized, and some were tiny slivers, but they covered the floor entirely. I tried to sit up, but I felt a shot of stabbbing pain in my side. I touched my stomach and felt something warm and sticky. I looked at my fingers. Blood. What is blood? Blood comes out of you when you're hurt. I reached down again, and felt the edge; a piece of glass sticking out of my abdomen. I was immeadiately panicked and barely noticed Adrian rushing around to turn on more hallogen construction lights. I heard a soft gurgling noise somewhere behind me.

"Adrian," I said weakly, my voice came out grainy. I extended my bloody fingers toward him. He was still turning on lights.

The gurgling noise again. It was a little louder this time and I heard the sound of glass grinding and clinking together. A rustling, like fabric shifting. I rolled onto my back and turned my head toward the sound.

That's when the world ended. Ended as I'd known it so far. From this moment on I would never be the same person again.

Patrick was lying on his side, his face a sickly grayish color. His brown eyes were wide with horror. The camera tripod was knocked askew and lying across his legs, which shifted weakly, as if attempting to kick it off. His hands were covered in blood and scrabbling at his neck where blood spurted forth, softly gurgling. A red piece of jagged glass stuck out there. He was looking at me, but his eyes didn't appear to be seeing me, or anything in this world. His wet fingers slipped on the glass as he tried to pull it out. Every window in the foyer was completely shattered, it looked as though it had been blown in. The pool of blood was growing by the second.

"Adrian!" I tried to scream, but my voice was still too weak. Every time I tried to talk, my diaphram pushed on the piece of glass and it pained.

"Adriannnnnn Hellllp!" I managed at last to put some volume into my cries.

"I'm coming!" I heard him call from across the room.

I heard footsteps, that quickened the closer he got, until I heard him sprinting across the hall, crunching glass.

Patricks' eyes grew glassy, his hands slowly stopped struggling, his legs lay still. I tried to call to him, but my voice was gone. I tried to tell him to hold on, Adrian was coming to help. Adrian would know what to do. Then the world was growing dimmer, Patricks mouth worked soundlessly. Then everything was extinguished.


	15. Aftermath

I sat up in my sterile, hard hospital bed. I held a small compact mirror up to my stomach examining the fourteen stitches, cutting across one of my dragons. Adrian stood at the windows, looking down on the other hospital buildings. I tossed the compact onto the bedside table, next to the flowers that had come without a note. I knew who they were from. There was a balloon from Adrian's grandmother, featuring Winnie the Pooh. It was so sweet and childish it made me teary to look at it. I'd suffered a concussion and a laceration, but there was a middle aged woman in Rutland, England whos' suffering I couldn't even imagine.

Adrian walked away from the windows and sat in the hard chair by my bed, looking tired. We both sat in silence, and waited.

Soon enough, my cousin Bart was tapping at the door. He didn't wait for an answer, but strode in, throwing a glance at the flowers so reverently placed. He looked at me; faltered. His dark eyes were wracked with guilt. He decided to address Adrian instead.

"I have your check." He spoke quietly, his former arrogance evaporated.

He pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket, and handed it to Adrian, who stood to accept it. He looked down at it and frowned.

"Something wrong?"

"This is much more than the amount we usually charge."

Both men spoke softly, appearing to have put aside whatever differences they had. Rich, poor, religious, and ecclectic.

"Yes, well, we're very sorry."

Bart looked embarassed now. He refused to meet my eyes though he must have known how directly I was staring at him.

"Very sorry." he mumbled again, then he was gone.

On the bus back to Massachusetts, I finally let myself cry. Cry an ocean of ice tears for the empty seat next to us. Cry for the girl I'd been, carefree, loving her life, enjoying her work. Not needing anybody.

Now I clung to Adrian like a choking vine, not knowing what I'd do if he was ever taken from me. I hated needing him, but I loved to love him.

Adrian had fallen upon the silver locket as Bart and Joel abandoned the circle. Adrian's grandmother had said the locket would be a twisted heap of silver if it worked, but it was only dented by the dagger. We had failed, and lost someone we both loved in the process. The curse had claimed another victim. Bart had poured a bucket of water over the chalk circle before he'd call the emergency vehicles, to preserve what little reputation the Foxworths retained. The police could not understand what had blown the tall windows inward when the night had been clear, without a cloud or puff of wind. Patricks camera had an acrid smell of burnt plastic even before we'd opened it. I wouldn't have wanted to see the footage anyway. However, it would have been nice to know that his death hadn't been in vain.

So with the large check the Foxworths had given us, we were able to pay off our expensive plane trips and the cost of the broken equiptment. If Mick still had a problem with it, it didn't really matter, because Adrian and I were quitting. We'd get nice normal jobs, and go on with our lives together. We'd try to forget the Foxworths and Marceline Deboreau I'd remain.

* * *

We put the locket in a jar and tossed it into the river where Corinne had ended her sad life. We watched it float away, carried by the current to the vast Atlantic, where it would eventually be lost forever. Maybe the timekeeper would spend eternity at the bottom of the ocean, but somehow I doubted it. When I'd picked up my things I was drawn to check on my one of a kind Luthiers violin. I gasped and tears sprang to my eyes. It was smashed to splinters. Had the timekeeper done this? Or someone much closer to home?


	16. The Dragons' Return

Book 2: Midnights' Lure

"Vingtor rise to face

The snake with hammer high

At the edge of the world

Bolts of lightning fills the air

as Mjolnir does its' work

the dreadful serpent roars in pain"

~Twilight of the Thunder God, Amon Amarth

A lot can happen in a year and a half.

After we returned to Salem, we quit our jobs at the Institute, and moved to greater Boston. Adrian secured work as an orderly at the State Mental Hospital, and I went to work at the information desk at the Peabody Museum of Archeology and Ethnology.

For eight months things were wonderful. We took some time to heal from Patricks' death, but afterward life was very good. We spent many hours by the harbour, just staring out at the wide world. People watching was one of our favorite pastimes. We sometimes languished in our apartment, goofing around, smoking together, renting movies just to make fun of them. We never really made any friends, we found we didn't need anyone but each other.

Between work, leisure time, and romps in the bedroom, there were incredibly sweet and romantic moments. It seemed that Foxworth Hall was far behind me, a distant unpleasent memory. I was happily lost in my quiet new life. Even though we sometimes worked long hours, we always had more than enough time with one another. I never believed I could feel so happy after what had happend. Life was a high, and I never imagined I could come down. Never thought the crash could come fast and hit me like a ton of bricks. Knocking the wind out of me.

I should have kept the image of Patrick lying in a pool of his own blood sharply in focus.

One morning I woke up to hear the shower going. Adrian usually left the house a half hour before I did, so I assumed he was running late. I got up, made coffee, and lit my first cigarette of the day. I turned on the radio that sat on our breakfast bar and listened to the traffic report. Fed the cat, a large Maine Coon named Pips. All the while, the shower was running steadily.

Eventually _I_ was going to be late, so I went to bang on the door.

"You are _so_ late!" I yelled. "Get out, or you're going to make _me_ late!"

"I Can't Get No Satisfaction" by the Rolling Stones was playing on the radio in the kitchen. I expected Adrian to shout back that he'd be out in a minute. I expected to hear the water screech off. But there was nothing. Not a sound other than the radio and the steady hiss of water echoed through our little apartment. I whirled around and looked at the living room. The couch, the walls, the music, it was _thin_! I hadn't even noticed.

"Adrian!" I screamed, banging on the door, making it shake.

"Adrian, answer me!"

Nothing.

Flying into a panic, I began to throw my body into the door, which was locked. We were both in the habit of locking the door when we took showers so the other couldn't get in and accidently flush the toilet, making the water boiling hot for ten minutes. "I Won't Back Down", by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers began to play as the wooden door frame splintered and I almost fell into the bathroom.

The mirror had large drops of condensation on it, like the room had been steamy once, but the air had gone cold. I froze as I saw no shape of Adrian through the glass shower door. I ran to throw open the sliding door and then I let out the most terrible noise. It was something like a howling scream, or a screaming howl. It sounded like a demons' roar straight from the deepest circle of hell. I thought I felt the ground vibrate with the sound. My legs didn't turn to lead, but rather, felt like they'd dissolved beneath me. I crumpled.

Adrian lay twisted in the bathtub. His cheek rested on the rim, his neck was bruised and cocked at an odd angle. His face was tinged blue, and his lips were purple. The shower had long ago grown cold. His eyes were closed. If it wasn't for the angle of his neck, he could have been sleeping. I couldn't move, I couldn't speak. The world had stopped all around me at that moment. My insides turned to ice and I felt nothing. I saw nothing. I only know what happened because some kindly Policeman told me later.

Apparently, I got into the shower with Adrian's corpse, fully dressed in pajamas, and curled up next to his body, lying there in the freezing water. A neighbor heard my death call, and saw that our cars were still in the parking lot and dialed 9-11. The fire brigade had to break down the door and emergency personell found me there, catatonic. I didn't move, I didn't make a sound, or respond in any way until they tried to lift me out of the tub. Then I shrieked and tried to beat them off. I kicked and punched and bit and had to be restrained. Then I just sobbed and went as limp as a boned fish.

I was put in the psych ward at the hospital for my outbursts at the scene. I did nothing more than cry and sleep for 48 hours. I couldn't be persuaded to eat at first, until my mother and grandmother showed up to give me some of their own home cooked food. Adrians' grandmother came to see me as well, and I screamed and cried in her arms. Telling her how sorry I was, and that it was my fault, all my fault. She cooed and stroked my head and said silently, _no, no, it's not your fault_.

At Adrian's funeral I wore a simple black dress, one that displayed my tattoos proudly, for that's how Adrian would have wanted it. It was a color I was to wear for the rest of my life. Black protected me. Black separated me from the happy, simple fools who didn't know any better. I could never be a part of them again. I didn't want to. I didn't want to be a part of a world without Adrian's face. I wished I could have let Adrian know how much importance I placed on every single look that crossed his face. I wished I could tell him how I treasured every day. I wished he knew how every word he spoke was like a note in an everlasting song that rang in me, gentle and true. I hoped that wherever he was he could hear it. _I miss you_.

* * *

I drifted through my days, becoming someone new in a matter of weeks. Someone who wore black and chains and listened to dark, heavy music along with the pop and classic rock. Someone who wore black smoky rings around her eyes, though she'd never really worn makeup before. Someone who hardly laughed and spoke. She just waited, and watched, learning the secrets of silence. She learned to listen instead of talk, and became cunning, shrewd. That person who spoke with a deadly silk voice at Foxworth Hall was who I had become completely. She buried herself in books and drowned her grief in knowledge of the physical universe. I moved back home with my family, leaving Pips in Maine.

After twenty years of playing the lottery with nothing to show for it, my mother, Claudia Deboreau hit the powerball jackpot for a cool five hundred million. I suppose money just came with knowing you were a Foxworth. We moved out of the bayou to a big fine house in Tuscon, Arizona. I was saddened by the loss of the site of so many memories, but at the same time, so much of what I had been back then was gone. Besides, my mother and grandmother deserved riches, even if they didn't come from who truly owed it to them.

In the dry, dusty desert, with more money than any of us could possibly need, I found a new identity. Not having to work inspires creativity in some. I spent every waking moment with my music. I had a new violin, (just as fine, but not as special), and I paid for lessons in guitar, piano, vocals, and learned how to make electronic music. I poured myself into my art. I let all the nuances of my emotions fill the sheet music, drained my sorrow into poems and lyrics, and the desert really is a strange place. It's wild and ageless. The sand moves from month to month, so that nothing is the same as it was when you last saw it. It changes you as the sand changes and the sparse, hardy plants somehow shift from place to place. At night the sky becomes a vast glittering ink canvas-Van Gogh's _Starry Night _come to life. I could have lived there forever, writing music for my beloved departed clairvoyant.

A few months after becoming rich ourselves, my mother returned from a Buddhist Temple retreat in Colorado. She blew in through the enormous front door, wearing a coarse white cotton blouse and pants, looking fresher and more alive than I'd seen her in years. She was so full of vitality and a calmness that touched me to see. She'd always struggled to calm whatever demons she had within her, and looking at her that night, I could see she had finally accomplished that. We talked for a long time, all three of us on the balcony overlooking the city from the hills. After a time, my mother expressed how hungry she was, and wanted to go into the city for something to eat. My mind was on a particularly dark song I'd been working on about Foxworth Hall in my studio, and I declined. My grandmother, who'd never exactly been an enthusiastic, happy person, (not that anyone could blame her) was in an unusually good mood that night and said she'd like to go. Since telling the truth about her past, it was as if my grandmother and mother had mended some unspoken break between them. That night, they looked at each other as old friends. I couldn't help but swell up for a moment with my love for them both.

Before they left, I hugged my mother and told her that I'd missed her and loved her.

I suppose you know what happened, as it so often does to us Foxworths. Too often for us to bear, but somehow we do. On their way back from dinner, the car stalled on a steep slope. It was a brand new ford. Why had it stalled there? On that steep curve leading into the hills where the wealthy members of the Tuscon community reside? It could have stalled at the bottom, it could have stalled at a stop sign, or a red light. Instead it stalled at the summit of the steepest curve leading to the eden above the poor, petty, mortals below. It slid backward, careening over the edge, flipping end over end in the brush. The emergency break had snapped. The police couldn't figure out what had happened and I know I was suspect for a short time. But they soon concluded it was not me, through their many forensic tests and scenarios.

* * *

It's easy for me to talk of all this now, but the truth is, I barely knew how to go on living at the time. With every day, a new suicide execution formed in my mind. I could walk in front of that bus. I could drown myself in our pool out back. I could throw myself off the same cliff the only family I'd ever known dissapeared over. Pick up the knife and drive it into my abdomen until I couldn't anymore. There was no neighbor close enough to hear me scream, and there was nothing to be done if I changed my mind halfway through. Yet I never did any of these things. I couldn't really say why except to say that I was afraid to die like any other human being. That's the simple explanation. The more complex reasoning would be that I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure if I wanted more out of life, or even if there was more I could get. I'd put off my death for another day to make up my mind. It went on like this for a short while, a month or so, though to me, it seemed that an age had gone by.

I retreated to Cancun and hired a private investigator to track down my father. I already knew he was dead, otherwise he wouldn't have been in my dream, but I had to be absolute. As I expected, the P.I. arrived in his trench coat to tell me that my father had died in a dingy apartment with a needle in his arm when I was twelve or so. His family had moved on to somewhere he couldn't seem to find. I was sitting on the beach under a black umbrella when he gave me his report and I had to remove my sunglasses and stare out at the azure sea. I was alone. Utterly and irrevocably alone. I didn't want to believe that the curse had been responsible, not when nothing like this had ever occured _before_ I knew my paternal lineage. I shuddered to think that by believing in the curse, I had made it all happen. I was unwilling to believe that fate could be so cruel to one dark insignificant little person such as me, who barely made a ripple in all her young life. Maybe it _was_ God. Maybe God was as angry and vengeful as John Amos had proclaimed to Olivia so long ago.

Now I was driving a black vintage Dodge Challenger on a twisting road that I hoped never to see again. I'd sworn on my colleagues lives that I would never return to Foxworth Hall, and they were both dead. Within a year and a half.

* * *

I'd spoken with Dr. Christopher Sheffield on the phone, explaining to him who I was, (leaving out the sordid details) and why I wanted to return. I assured him that it had nothing to do with money, for I had my own wealth now, and Bart ought to be soothed by that. It was better to be with people you had some ties to, hateful though they might be, than to live out your life alone and wishing you'd gone into deaths' arms along with those you'd loved well. They were my only family now. I might learn to love them, in time. It would be better than contaminating another innocent person with a past that would not die.

* * *

_Standing on the front portico once again, Chris and I silently awaited the arrival of another family member. We watched the car thats' rumbling engine could be heard miles away thunder up the long, curving drive. It screeched to a stop, and I watched as a black snake skin boot emerged.. _


	17. These Boots

_It seemed that Joel Foxworth had indeed been a wily youth, quite different from his father, just as he'd said. An affair! This should have comforted me, but I still couldn't bring myself to ignore the piety I often saw in him._

_So, there was another unknown family member to meet. I had been dreading this moment since Chris informed me that Joel's long lost granddaughter would be coming supposedly to meet _her _unknown relatives. He'd approached me on the terrace facing the gardens one fine cool summer morning, after leaving to take a phone call. I'd been excited, for our phone rang so rarely, when Bart was constantly taking phone calls in his office. I hoped it was Jory or Cindy calling. _

_"Who was that?" I'd asked cheerfully, taking a sip of tea. _

_"Joel's granddaughter."_

_I nearly choked. _

_"Chris!" I said, feeling that hard lump of fear rising in my throat._

_"Now Cathy," He said, looking stern. "I had a long talk with this young lady and she's not what you're thinking. Whatever shadows you're seeing behind those expressive eyes, put them aside until you've met the girl at least!" _

_His tone grew softer as he sat close to me, and gave me all the kisses and touches I so desperately needed to accept this new information without judgement. _

_"She's had a hard life. She grew up very poor with her mother and grandmother. Her father was addicted to heroin and left when she was very young. It seems that Joel had an affair with her grandmother before he left for Europe, and a daughter was the result. Believing him to be dead, for the newspapers must have printed it, her grandmother never told either of them about him. She studied hard and got a scholarship to Princeton when she was seventeen. She started working for a construction company afterward, and that's how she wound up coming here. She said Joel recognized her by her last name and seeing their resemblence, confronted her with the truth. One of her coworkers was killed in an accident shortly afterward, he was a friend of hers, and she said she couldn't stay after that." _

_Oh. Another accident. I wanted to feel sorry for her, but I couldn't shake off my suspicions. It wasn't so odd that a woman would work for a construction firm these days, but what Princeton graduate goes straight to menial labor? _

_"Well, her boyfriend died a few months afterward, she wasn't willing to go into detail about that. So she returned home and apparently her mother won in the lottery and they moved away. But shortly after that, both her mother and grandmother were killed in an auto accident." _

_He paused and looked at me meaningfully. Oh accidents, we'd seen our share. If I had been in doubt up until that point, I could deny it no longer. Were we all doomed to lose one loved one after another? _

_"Anyway, I just couldn't tell her she couldn't come. She was so earnest over the phone, and we are the only family she has now. Her name is Marceline and I want everyone, including you, Cathy, to make her feel welcome and at home." _

_Despite myself, I couldn't help but try to find and grasp at any tarnish I could. _

_"But what about Bart? Does he know? Will he agree to it?" _

_If Bart trusted Joel not to try to steal his fortune, I was sure he'd feel differently about a young woman. _

_"I've already spoken to him." Chris said somewhat gruffly, indicating that the conversation between him and my second son had not been pleasant. "I know what you're thinking," he added, looking into my eyes, piercing them. I knew he was doing what he'd always done, and reading me like a book. _

_"Let me just assure you now, that Marcelines' mothers' lottery winnings were quite substantial." _

_And that was that. _

_So I watched the slim black high heeled boot hover over the driveway, as the girl inside leaned to shut the engine off. If her car and her fancy boots were any indicator, she certainly didn't seem like a poor orphan. I couldn't help but remember my mother telling Chris and me about the day our father had come to Foxworth Hall, another poor relation Malcolm Foxworth deigned to take in. But she was not poor. No, no. She was just as rich as any of us, and she'd come here. Why? I was dithering on the spot, her eyes, her eyes, I must see her eyes before I could allow myself to trust her. Chris squeezed my fingers, and turned to look at me reassuringly. _

_When she stepped out of the car, my first impression was that of Yolanda, the girl with whom I'd shared my first apartment in New York. She had the same sort of tall, willowy figure, but she was wearing heels, so she was not as tall as she looked. Her coal black hair was slightly long, hanging just over the top of her back, and pin straight. Her skin tone was a bit more rich than Yolanda's had been, it looked more golden. She wore black tights and a long sleeved black dress that hugged every curve. God, she must be roasting! Oh, but she did look good in it, she had the same cat-like gait of Madame Marisha, but without the sinewy muscles that had been hers. Her lips were medium sized pouty tulip petals under high cheekbones and a slightly larger nose. She looked like Cleopatra; I could see her with a golden crown on her brows, eating figs in an alabastor palace. I desperately sought out her eyes, but they were hidden under a thick black fringe on her forehead. She finally looked up at us and the effect was quite startling. Her eyes were two bright blue diamonds, in half moon lids, with thick black lashes to act like a velvet curtain when she blinked. Her eyes stood out in heavy contrast with her dark features. They looked at Chris and I with trepidation and curiosity, seeking our approval. She stood there for a long moment, her eyes darting back and forth between us, waiting. _

_"Marceline," Chris said, striding forward with his arms outstretched. His tone was as warm as the summer day around us, and I knew my Christopher doll was looking at her with complete sincerity. "Welcome." _

_I saw relief break over her face, and she smiled. I too, was feeling relief because her eyes showed _her_ sincerity. My heart told me she hadn't been lying about her past, and though her eyes were Foxworth blue, she showed none of her grandfathers' faint malice. Yet the gaping hole in her story made my heart falter._

* * *

I didn't at all care for the way Catherine looked at me. She smiled, but the corners of her mouth didn't turn up exactly the way they should. Her eyes were rank with fear and mistrust. She radiated it so powerfully, I could almost see a little worried cloud hanging over her head. She was once a great beauty, you could see that. Her pink butterfly lips hardly sagged or showed lines. There were a few crows' feet around her bright blue eyes, but they only made her look wise, seasoned. She wore what little signs of age she had with great dignity and her dancers body still appeared supple in a pansy patterned sundress. I wondered if she knew or sensed that I knew so much about her through her books, and if she did, it must concern her that she knew so little about me.

Christopher, on the other hand, shook mine so heartily, I was instantly won over. He had a strange charisma, that little spring in his step, that attracted me to him instantly. I'd heard a little of it on the phone, but in person it was almost overwhelming. Even the palm of his hand was warm and inviting. He clasped my hand in both of his, and his touch was so reassuring I almost believed that all this was going to work out. He too was handsome, and didn't look as old as he ought to. He wore a green golfing shirt and tan summer slacks, and he looked wonderfully comfortable in them. I wistfully thought of the father I didn't have long enough, and imagined that if he hadn't been the opiate slave he was, he would have worn clothes like this.

"We'll get Trevor to take your bags," he started to say, ushering me up the front steps.

"Oh, they're being delivered. I couldn't fit them in my trunk. I just have a daybag."

I saw Catherine look at me sharply, then turn her head forward again.

"I always travel with my musical equiptment." I said, directing my words to her. There was a moment when her eyes met mine for just an instant and the exchange was so profound, it was like looking into a blinding light, and I had to look away.

I noticed the tall windows on the front of the house had been replaced, and though I didn't really expect them to be any other way, I still felt a pang of sorrow looking at them.

"You're a musician? What's your specialty?" Christopher asked me, his eyes smiling generously.

"Well, violin, but I play a lot of stringed instruments. I just recently took up guitar, electric and accoustic."

"How long have you been playing?"

"Well my mother had the violin, I guess I just picked it up from her. In music class at school, I would go straight for the instruments, and sometimes I could just pick up something new and start to play it. The teacher was annoyed with me because I didn't want to learn how to read notes."

I was very aware that Catherine was watching me intently, but I kept my eyes on Christopher. He flicked his eyes at her, and they seemed to share something very private. He looked back at me, smiling again.

"Well wonderful! Maybe you can give a concert at Bart's Twenty-fifth birthday party in a few days."

Me? Perform? That'd be the day.

We stepped inside the foyer that had seen me create a voodoo spell, and Chris closed the door behind him. I sighed, just as I had the first time I'd seen it. The room had gone from a bare, empty cavern, to a splendid ballroom, with three chandeliers made of crystal and gold, with real candles! I wondered what kind of ladder was needed to light them, and imagined a cherry picker in the middle of the room. What would you do if hot wax dripped onto your guests? There were gold framed mirrors on the walls. I knew from my studies that in the early twentieth century it was the fashion to put many mirrors on the walls to give rooms more dimension. They reflected the fancy french furniture that I must confess did not look very comfortable at all, but was beautifully arranged around the parimeter of the room. The floor was mosaic marble tiles, that positively glowed from a recent polish. I could see my face in it. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, I turned around toward the windows and looked down at the spot where Patrick had breathed his last breath. As I stared at it, the concrete floor was littered with glass and..._No_, I told myself, I was not going back to that moment. I turned back to Catherine and Christopher, nervous now. I knew I must have looked strange staring at the floor.

Christopher was looking at me with the same genuine smile, but Catherine had noticed my change in expression. I could see as much in her slightly narrowed eyes. She clung to his arm, like she was afraid if she let go, I might leap and attack her.

"This room is very nice. It came out beautifully." I said, trying to glaze over my odd moment.

"What were you working on while you were here?" Catherine asked, her tone innocent, but she was all eyes. Christopher gave her a warning look, and she glanced back defiantly.

"Oh, I uh, I was installing insulation. Everything but the attic." I took a shot in the dark.

"But I thought the house was mostly finished when Bart and Joel arrived." She held her chin up, triumphant. I'd seen that very same look on Bart's face when he'd said I looked like a man. I _knew_ I should have gone with paint and primer. Or perhaps I could've installed the carpets.

"I, um..." I stammered. Now Christopher too was looking at me with concern, frowning slightly.

It is this families' custom to lie to each other, to cover up the truth, or tell only half truths. I knew right then and there that my lie was not going to hold water with this woman. This woman who'd been through so much, that she could see through any scheme, scam, or lie. I knew this about her; she'd told me herself in a way! On the spot I decided to tell her the truth. I put my hand on my forehead, under my bangs and rubbed my eyebrows.

"You want some coffee?" I asked suddenly. "I need some coffee. I've been driving all night and all day."

"Sure, we can get you that coffee. Right this way." Chris was content for the moment to pretend that nothing had happened.

They led me to a salon off the foyer, with more pretty furniture. It was definitely a ladies' room. Obnoxious floral paintings covered the walls, and there were lacy pillows everywhere. Filmy curtains on the french windows fluttered in the breeze. It seemed like a pastel paint truck had exploded in here, but the fresh flowers on the tables and green hanging plants were a nice touch.

"I'll be right back," Christopher said, throwing Catherine an odd stern look. He disappeared through another door.

She sat on the little couch opposite me, twisting her fingers for a moment then finally clasped her hands primly in her lap. She smiled at me polietly, then looked away. I knew I had to tell both of them the truth, but I didn't know where to even begin. There was a horrible moment when I feared they would not believe me. But hadn't stranger things happened to them? Well not stranger than what happened to me, perhaps, but pretty strange. It was a chance I was going to take, but I still didn't want to speak of it now. I crossed my legs and bit my fingernail.

* * *

_Oh, why did Chris have to go and leave me alone with her? I didn't know what to say, and put my hands firmly in my lap to keep them from twisting nervously. What did he expect me to say, really? I couldnt've said what I really thought, and that was all I could think about! She'd definitely acted strangely in the foyer, and I'd even caught her in a lie! My mind seethed with questions, suspicions, doubts, and fears, each one more unlikely than the next. I looked away from her, feeling that the airy room was suddenly stifling and small._

_I couldn't help but glance at her from time to time, and I marveled at her exotic beauty. Even as she sat there chewing on her fingernail, she was more lovely than most women looked posing for a photograph. In her sleek black dress, she reminded me of my mother. She suddenly flashed her eyes at me and I was jolted by a streak of blue. _

_" ," she said, staring steadily at a point just to the left of me. "I promise I'll tell you everything you want to know when the time is right. I just can't right now because...because...well, for me the grief that I feel is still very close. Plus I myself am not entirely sure what really happened. I'm still trying to accept it." _

_Oh those were words to really send my head spinning! _

_"What do you mean?" I asked nervously. How had she known exactly what I was thinking? My eyes, always it was my damned eyes!_

_She looked me in the eye then, and the clash of blue on blue sent electric fire spitting everywhere! Then she seemed to relax. I saw her shoulders sag and the tightness that had been about her vanished. _

_"Come on," she said, leaning back against the sofa cushions. "You don't buy that construction crap, I went to Princeton for God's sake." _

_Though her sudden informality should have offended me, I felt the knot in my stomach loosen slightly. She suddenly seemed only tired, and she smiled weakly at me. Although I had many questions in my mind, her acknowlegement of her own lie proved something to me. I still don't know what it was, maybe it was the fact that she appeared so astoundingly different from her grandfather; she hadn't even mentioned wanting to see him. But that was when I began to let my guard down. I smiled at her. _

_"It was a pathetic lie." -she laughed- "Don't feel like you have to lie to us. We've been lied to enough." _

_Oh damn, I said too much! But if she noticed, she didn't make a sign of it._

_Chris returned with the coffee, sugar, and milk, and we watched as she added a liberal amount of each to her cup. She stirred with the tiny silver spoon, then she took a deep draught and smacked her lips. _

_"Oh, that's wonderful." she said. "What is that?" she asked Chris, who appeared amused. _

_"It's imported Arabian." he said genially. _

_"God that's good." she said, taking another gulp. Oh yes, it was clear she hadn't been rich her whole life. Or even half of her life._

_"You don't sound like you're from the South." I said, pouring myself a cup, and adding only a small amount of sugar. _

_"Well I've been living up North for five years. You pick up an accent, just like any other cultural thing if you've lived somewhere long enough." _

_Of course, she was right. She set her cup on the small saucer in her lap and looked thoughtfully out of the windows._

_"Listen, Mr. and , I just want to say thank you for agreeing to let me come here. I know I'm just a bastard," -Chris opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a long fingered hand. "-No, no, that's just what I am. I know you don't know me, and I know how strange this must be, but I can't even begin to tell you how much this means to me. I'm all alone, just like my grandfather was in the alps, and well...I just hope we can be friends and enjoy each others company. After my mother and grandmother died, I spent two months alone, trying to find some kind of purpose in my life. You're giving me a big chance here, and I know you don't have to." _

_She looked between the two of us, and then continiued quietly, _

_"I read your books, . When I was here before." -My heart skipped a beat!- "I just want you to know that I won't judge you and I don't blame you. I wasn't raised that way, and my mother was very unconventional. She was at Woodstock. That's actually where she met my father..." _

_She stared at both of us, imploring. _

_"Anyway," she rushed on. "I just thought I should tell you that." she set her quaking cup on the table and put her hands in her lap, and stared at her boots. She had said all of that so honestly, her eyes had been so wide, and full of some emotion that made them bright. I was immeadiately won over, despite myself, the consequenses be damned. _

_Chris stood up and sat on the couch next to her. I saw a single pearly tear fall into her lap. He put one arm around her and tilted her chin up to meet his eyes squarely. He grabbed a napkin off of the table and handed it to her. _

_"Now that's enough." he said, speaking to her in the same tone I'd seen him use with Cindy when she was upset. "Of course you can stay here with us, you can even leave with us when we go. You're family, good or bad, you're still one of our own. We're not perfect, you know that I see, so don't feel like an outsider or a nuisance. Everyone needs a family, people who love them. In time I'm sure we'll all grow toward each other, so no more tears. Make yourself at home, all right?" _

_She nodded, looking at him gratefully, then she blew her nose and hiccuped. She appeared childlike, and so needing, just as four little attic mice had been so so long ago. How could we shun her? Even if she had a secret, obviously it hadn't made her into anything but a lonely young girl with mountains of money and no one in the world to care for her. _

_Just then Bart appeared at the door. He folded his arms across his broad chest and scowled deeply. _

_"So you're here, are you?"_

* * *

I quickly wiped my face, not wanting Bart to think me a weak, helpless woman. For a moment I'd felt like the girl I used to be; innocent.

I looked up at Bart and smiled ironically.

"It's good to see you too, cousin."

He flinched at the word, as if it were a hot coal I'd thrown on him. He snorted and looked away. I decided to tease him a little. I stood up and went right to him, holding my arms out.

"Okay, bring it in buddy, give your favorite cousin a hug!"

He looked mortified as I put my arms around his shoulders. I thumped him twice on the back forcefully. I started to draw away when suddenly he seized me around the middle and squeezed, hard. His arms were like a vice and it felt like he was trying to break my back. He let me drop, but he continiued to stare at me with daggers in his eyes.

"Well," Chris said, clearing his throat loudly. "Marceline, let us show you around."

"No." Bart said, a little too loudly. He must have realized how he sounded because he added in a softer tone, "I'd just like a quick word with you."

I suppose he thought I might protest, (I wouldn't have) because he grabbed my hand in what would be an intimate display of familial affection and comfort, but he was crushing my fingers. He pulled me out of the room quite ruthlessly, and closed the door behind him. I thought he would drop my hand and whirl about to face me, but instead, he dragged me across the foyer, the heels of my boots clacking along in staccato.

Up, up, up those marvelous pollished stairs he pulled me, leading me into the east wing, where he opened the large door at the end of a hallway and shoved me in. I recognized the room from Catherine's books. The Library. Then into another door he pushed me. It was Malcolm's sickroom. There was a row of filing cabinets along one wall, and luxurious leather armchairs in front of a long sleek tablet of a desk, a single oblong block that dominated the room. There was another desk with a computer on it and two printers. There were a few things in the room that acted as accents, lamps that fit with the rooms futuristic design, expensive ten foot long black and gold vertical blinds that covered the entire window space from wall to wall, and a few ficas plants in pots in the corners.

He closed the door behind us with a snap. He grabbed my shoulders and shoved me into one of the chairs. He sat behind his desk and glared at me.

"You don't have to manhandle me!" I said, rubbing my shoulders. "I'm not some drunk secretary at happy hour."

"You swore that you'd never come back!" He spat. "I suppose you think you're going to muscle in on my money and my family and take the Foxworth name, but you'd better think again!"

I only smiled at him. I raised my long legs and placed them on his desk. His eyes bulged and he opened his mouth furiously, but I cut him off.

"Do you like my boots? I met Jimmy Choo at fashion week to see the spring collections. We got to talking and I told him I wanted a pair of boots. This isn't dyed snake skin, it comes from the Black Mamba, the deadliest snake in the world. Aren't these boots something?"

His eyes lingered on the boots, which were only black swampsnake skin, but they _were_ Jimmy Choos. I went on,

"Yes I swore. I swore on the lives of my colleagues and they are both six feet under, _Bart_."

He looked up at me, opened his mouth, closed it, and just gave me a cold, calculating stare.

"If it's money you're worried about-" I wiggled one shining foot at him. "-you needn't concern yourself. But as for _our_ family, yes. I want to know them, and maybe I can get back some of what I lost." I glared at him, and to my surprise he seemed to shrink back, his eyes skipping guiltily away. I stood up to leave.

"You can stay in this house on two conditions. One, you are to be out of here after my birthday, and two, you are not to say anything to anyone about what happened here."

"Done." I said, throwing my hands up in surrender and then I left, my six thousand dollar boots tap-tap-tapping.


	18. The Sultan's Daughter

As I walked out through the library again, I felt strong. I had quelled Bart, and with my boots! I knew it wasn't really my boots, but rather the money I had now. Money might not be more important than love, but it did give one a power unlike anything else in the tiny, artificial world of mankind.

But of course, real life isn't like that. A blade of grass doesn't wonder if it can grow tall, worry about finding suitable work, and finding another blade of grass to marry. It just grows. Real organic life is effortless, falling into place naturally, without strain or complicated emotional trials. Real life doesn't seek to change it's environment, only itself. Real life only seeks to evolve. I knew this truth as well. I could function in the self created world of man, while still knowing the truth about what it meant to be real.

Back in the salon, I found Catherine and Christopher talking quietly. Catherine still had a look of worry on her face, while Christopher seemed exasperated. They both stopped immeadiately upon my arrival.

"Here she is." said Christopher, hitching up a smile. "Come along and you can pick out a bedroom."

"I can pick?" I said excitedly.

He laughed and stood up, offering his hand to Catherine, who accepted and rose too.

"Of course you can."

They showed me all the bedroom suites on the second floor and none really appealed to me. They were all wonderful in their way, but not one reflected my style, or pleased me so much that I simply had to have it.

"Are there any bedrooms on the first floor?" I asked.

"Why don't you tell us what sort of room you'd like. If you could have anything you wanted."

"Well I like exotic spaces. I like to feel like I'm somewhere else, halfway across the world. At our house in Tucson, my room was Japanese style, with sliding paper screens."

He and Catherine exchanged a look, and she nodded her head at him, as if to say, "you might as well."

"Actually, there are a few bedroom suites on the first floor. There's one that might suit your tastes. It's one of the rooms Bart had decorated."

If Bart had decorated it, it stood to reason that I wouldn't like it, but I nodded.

They led me down the stairs and through the lower north wing. They ushered me all the way to the end of the wing, where there was a single large square door. Christopher made a gesture to me, indicating that I should open it. I turned the silver handle, and my breath caught. I had to step down, for the room had a drop floor.

The room was in a Moroccan style, to the left there were two recessed windows, with little round sitting areas underneath instead of sills. The soft cushions had pretty dark embroidered pillows, with hindu looking designs stitched on them. The recessed walls in front of the windows had carved tops that came together in a point, making a soft triangle shape, just like in Arabian palaces. The room itself was painted bright pinkish plum, with silver accents. There was a sitting area to the right of the windows, with floor furniture on top of an oriental rug in black, red, and cream. The chairs and cushions sat on the ground, with the square carved table in the center. More embroidered pillows on the furniture, looking soft and comfortable. On the opposite end of the room was a dressing table (the only piece of furniture not low to the ground) with a huge rectangular mirror framed in silver, and two dressers on either side. On either side of the dressers there were two doors. One for the modestly sized closet, and another for the bathroom. It was all wonderful, but what really drew your eye, was the bed, which appeared to be the center piece of the room.

The bed, like everything else, was low to the ground, and it was not pushed against any wall and didnt appear to have a bed frame. It was covered in deep purple and mauve satin sheets and comforter and had a glorious layered look. Pillows upon pillows lay on top all covered in satin, oh the bed was a satin dream! A layered filmy midnight blue and purple silk canopy was suspended from the ceiling over the bed, to make a curtain. Oh god, I'd feel like a genie with enough money to make _every_ wish come true!

A three foot tall silver hookah stood in the corner, I'd make good use of that. Beyond the bed was another window I thought at first, covered by heavy embroidered velvet blue drapes, but it turned out to be a sliding glass door that opened onto a private patio, with a pavement of flat stones of all colors pushed together in a half circle, like an odd puzzle, and a rock garden pool where gold and pale koi fish hovered just under the surface of the clear water.

They watched my reaction silently, then I turned around and smiled widely at them. Chris's face split into a grin. He turned to Catherine and said,

"I think at last we have a winner."

I looked at them uncertainly. It was like this room had been made for me. I was so thrilled with it, that I wanted every room I lived in from that moment on to be like this. Why were they so nice to me? I'm just a poor kid from the stinking swamp.

"Can I hug you?" I asked timidly.

Christopher chuckled and held out his arms. I rushed to him and threw my arms over his shoulders, feeling something welling up within, some warm emotion that had something to do with my father. All I really knew was that I hadn't felt this way since I was very young. I felt so good that when he released me, I turned and threw my arms around Catherine too.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, obviously taken aback, but she recovered quickly and hugged me too, and I even thought I heard a little surprised laugh.

I drew away, and she was smiling, the first genuine smile I'd seen her wear all day. I liked the way I felt around them.

"Well get some sleep, and why don't you join Cathy and I for dinner around seven on the south terrace, you remember where it is?" Christopher asked me.

I told him I did. They both smiled and turned to leave.

"Oh, um, excuse me?" I asked.

They looked.

"How would you like me to adress you?" My question was very proper.

They glanced at one another, then Catherine spoke up,

"Chris and Cathy would be fine."

"Oh okay, I'll see you later, Chris and Cathy."

They both chuckled and closed the door softly behind them. I turned to do what I was dying to do, and threw myself down on that bed.

As I had the first time I came to Foxworth Hall, I fell asleep sprawled upon the bed in my clothes. When I woke, it was five o'clock. I spent ten minutes or so sitting on the patio that had no furniture yet, smoking a cigarette and watching the koi propel themselves through the water. I thought of Adrian and the peaceful dream I'd had the first time we'd made love. It seemed a thousand years ago. I stubbed out my cigarette and went back inside to bathe.

The bathroom was dark blue tiles with a tiny intricate design in each one, bound together by white grout. The tiles covered every surface of the bathroom, walls and ceiling included. The tub was circular, sunken and made of the same tiles. It was big enough for three people at least, and the only thing that stopped me from falling into it was the silver tap and the lip of the tub was raised slightly. I looked in it and saw white rubber holes for water jets. I wondered how you turned them on. There didn't seem to be any sort of control panel, but after further investigation, I found that two tiles of the lip lifted up and there were buttons for the jets: Massage, Bubbles, Off. Well God Damn.

The sink was a gleaming silver bowl, the size of a large watermelon, set up on a plinth that had a twisting vine wrapped around it of gleaming silver flake paint. The chrome toilet was a bit much, it would probably be ice cold in the mornings. There was a shower stall, (tiled) with a wide round silver showerhead that instead of being on the wall, stuck out from the ceiling to pour down onto it's occupant like rain. It didn't have a curtain or a glass door and I wondered why. Not that it bothered me much, I hadn't taken a shower since Adrian's death.

I filled up the tub with relish, poured in my favorite jasmine and sandalwood soap, shed my clothes and got in. For a long time I was lost in a hot steamy, perfumed bubble galaxy. I only allowed myself to drift in an Arabian night fantasy, and not think of more mundane things. I wished I had a tray of chocolates and dates and plums. Eating in the bath was something only the daughter of the sultan was allowed to do. Her maids held giant ostrich feather fans on long poles to wave away the steam that might have ruined her elaborate hairstyle. Another maid threw rose petals into the water. The princess confessed to the maids that she was terribly lonely after her fiance was killed by bloodthirsty desert barbarians, and how she wished to be loved again by someone just as wonderful as her doomed lover had been. The maids said nothing, for they were forbidden to speak in the presence of the princess. She didn't mind, really, she enjoyed having people just to listen to her talk.

I sat at the dressing table to apply makeup, admiring the empty jewelry and makeup boxes with tiny squares of colored glass covering them like the tiles in the bathroom. The room was geometrically inspired, down to the last detail. _Bart_ had done this? Or had he, more likely, hired someone with more taste? Makeup and perfume applied, I stepped back into my boots and entered the hallway.

My luggage had been delivered while I slept and sat neatly piled up next to my door. As I moved the Louis Vuitton trunks into the bedroom, I noticed something sticking out of one of the padlocks. It was a pin. Who had tried to get into my things? One of the delivery men? The butler? No time, no time. I closed the door, thinking that perhaps I'd buy a bolt for it, if I went into town.

On the terrace, Chris and Cathy sat staring onto the gardens, watching the birds and rabbits frollic about, talking softly, laughing lightly. The summer paradise sprawled before us sleepily in the early evening haze.

* * *

_Sensing someone behind me, I whirled around expecting Joel, but it was only Marceline. She wore a black pleated skirt and tank top also black, with black and white striped stockings, like a pirate, and then I saw them. Tattoos all over her arms and back and chest! All of them were Japanese style, a wave of water with a large red whiskered fish on one bicep, and on the other a samurai warrior weilding a sword. Two red chinese dragon heads facing each other on her breast bone, and, oh she had them by the dozens! Words in chinese and english on her forearms, cherry blossoms on her hands. I wondered if she had them in the places I couldn't see. I couldn't stand tattoos; people jabbing themselves with needles to ruin the perfect envelope of skin they were born with. Only criminals and bikers and rock stars had tattoos, nefarious characters, who did drugs!_

_She saw me looking. I couldn't arrange my features fast enough to hide my disgust, for she hung her head, her black hair sweeping forward like a curtain to hide her face. _

_"Do they really offend you that much?" she asked quietly. _

_"What? Oh no, not at all, it's just you wore those long sleeves earlier." _

_I knew I had reddened as she sat down, a strange smile on her face. _

_"It's okay, my mother didn't like them either. She threw a plate at my head when I got my first one without permission. Frisbee style." _

_Chris laughed uproariously. She smiled shyly at him. Already I knew she liked him more than me, perhaps she'd like me more if I wasn't so cold. But I couldn't help myself, all I could think of when I looked at her was Joel. And I didn't like to think of him. _

_"I think they're interesting, the artwork is interesting." Chris said. _

_Chris could always appriciate any art form. Now that she was close enough, I could see how the cherry blossom branch twisted in and out of the words on her left forearm. The letters were all different fonts and sizes, and I recognized a few of the phrases as Shakespeare. _

_"In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes, for they in thee a thousand errors note; but tis my heart that loves what they despise, who in spite of veiw is pleased to dote." _

_That was one at least I could appriciate. _

_"What do the charachters on your right arm mean?" Chris asked. _

_The chinese writing went in a vertical row, large charachters, and up close you could see the tip of the samurai sword bleeding ink to feed the symbols. Now that I thought of it, I'd never actually seen a person with tattoos up close. I knew tattoos had become mainstream, but in my day the only people who had them were either in the military or in jail. Now that I was looking at them, I had to concede that they were good pieces of art. Imagine having to color an intricate design on a moving breathing canvas that bled. I suppose my ability to see the tarnish could go both ways. Turning over the tarnish to see beauty and gold. More Chris's strong point than mine._

_"Well these're the Eight Virtues of the Samurai." She said, then she began to point with a long unpolished finger at each one, top to bottom. _

_"Justice, Courage, Mercy, Courtesy, Truth, Honor, Loyalty, and Self mastery." _

_Chris nodded, as if in approval. At that moment Trevor and another maid came out to serve us. _

_Marceline looked at the three trays with silver lids, and then she asked,_

_"Do Bart and Joel usually join you for dinner?" _

_Joel? She referred to her grandfather this way? Shouldn't she call him grandfather? Why did she look so relieved when we told her that no, typically Chris and I shared dinner alone? _

_As we were enjoying our gourmet dinner once again, I couldn't resist._

_"Why do you call your grandfather by his christian name? Surely you ought to call him grandfather." _

_She glanced at me edgily, suddenly uncomfortable. She took her time thinking her answer over. _

_"Well when we first met I called him Mr. Foxworth. I mean I haven't known him very long. I think Joel is informal enough. Frankly I'm just not comfortable calling him grandfather." _

_Who could understand that better than me? _

_Over dinner Chris and I asked her more questions. We only knew she'd been born in Louisiana, but where? What had her childhood been like growing up there? What else did she like to do in her spare time? How did she feel when her mother had won the money? What had they done with it so far? _

_She answered our questions cheerfully enough, but she really brightened when we asked about what she'd studied at Princeton. _

_"History, Anthropology, I think when I was younger I really wanted to be an Archeaologist. I just found it exciting, secrets of the past. What we could tell from it about who we are now. I fancied I would find something people had never seen before, and would change the history books. I didn't want to be in a lab either, analyzing petrified ape skulls, I wanted to be out in the field making the discoveries, travelling to Africa, Asia minor, Iceland..." _

_She sighed, as if merely thinking about her dream gave her pleasure. _

_"You know all humans are related. Have you ever seen someone, who looks almost exactly like someone you know, but they couldn't possibly be related? Yet we are. We are all descended from one ape like creature, a species called Orrorin, twenty million years ago, who stood on his hind legs to better see predators approaching. As time went on, his legs grew longer, his feet narrower so he could run faster. His longer life span allowed him a larger brain. The larger brain made it difficult to give birth to infants who were delveloped enough to walk within a few weeks. So infants began to be born smaller, less developed. Because of this sensitivity the apes began to pair off, for infants faired better with two parents to protect them. A chemical bond sealed this pairing, a bond we now call love. The ape gradually lost his thick fur, for it encumbered him when he ran from predators or to catch his food. The larger brain permitted him to think of ways to make his life easier, he made tools to help himself and his offspring. By this time he was a homo habillis, a fully bipedal creature. During the next million years, his brain incresed double. He was homo erectus, the first to leave the jungles and savannahs of Africa. He made more sophisticated tools than his ancestor, and he discovered the bright flame to keep his thinly haired skin warm. Four hundred thousand years ago, Homo sapiens proved dominant over the neaderthals, and these were our forerunners, the first modern humans. We are the subspecies, homo sapiens sapiens. I think it very arrogant of us to believe ourselves masters of our world, when we haven't really been around that long. The planet is four billion years old. Four hundred thousand years is nothing. The blink of an eye to our planet. It was vibrant and full of life before we came, and it will be the same way after we're gone. We are masters of nothing but the artificial world we create for ourselves. We must never forget that ape who stood, for it is he who humbles us, not any concieved super being that rules the universe. God is only a bystander, and frankly we are arrogant stupid creatures to even believe for a second that we know anything about Him or Her or It." _

_All through her impassioned speech, I was amazed that she was so astute, so knowledgable. I had no idea she had all that going on in her head. Her tattoos didn't matter. It was her intelligence, her wisdom that made her who she was. She knew more at Twenty two, than some men who'd lived their whole life through knew. Her grandfather was one of those men, and what's more, I think she knew that perfectly well. Speak of the devil, I thought I saw Joel hiding in the shrubbery, pretending to admire the flowers again. _

_"So why didn't you follow your dream? You speak so passionately of it." I asked. _

_She appeared to jerk out of her reverie. _

_"Well," she said, the sparkle in her electric blue eyes gone out, "I had a four year scholarship, but I had to take on two jobs for a doctorate. I was exhausted. Plus I found I enjoyed one of the jobs so much that I just...gave up to do it full time." _

_"You could continiue now, you have more than enough money." Chris said, stalling my next question about what that job was. _

_"Oh." she said thoughtfully, like it had never occured to her. Something dark clouded her eyes for a moment. "Well I don't really need to work anymore..." _

_"You mustn't think like that." Chris said earnestly. "I don't nessecarily need to work either, but my work gives me something meaningful to do. We all need purpose in our lives." _

_She sighed, staring at nothing. Her eyes took on a bleak look._

_"My mother won the jackpot about two months after my Adrian died, and I was deeply in mouring. I still am, that's why I wear black. He was...an astounding person. And I just poured all my hurt into my music. The more I did it, the more meaning I found in it. I'd always loved music, I'd always had a talent for it, but only after his death did I find real passion for it. It's all I want to do now. I'll always love history, and the story of us, but I think this has happened for a reason, and this is what I'm meant to do." _

_She finished simply, with a shrug. Chris opened his mouth to say something else, but just then Bart and Joel appeared and Marceline looked startled. She mumbled something about being full and rushed off, determinedly not looking at her grandfather. _


	19. Electricity

Another note to the reader: I wish I could write music and lyrics but I often picture things happening to songs that have already been written. Including soundtrack. For instance, the scene in chapter 11 where Marceline is surrounded by her dead supporters and family, well I imagined it happening to "Transformation" from Disney's Brother Bear soundtrack. And the ritual scene in the chapter entitled "Thin" I pictured occuring to "Swords Crossed" from Pirates of the Caribbean. I guess Disney makes a damn versatile soundtrack. Maybe I do this because the scenes I write play out like movies in my head. I even went online and found pictures of different people to represent the charachters in my head, so that the images would be even clearer. I won't name them all, but to me, the actress Marley Shelton is a dead ringer for Melodie. I'm serious. Go look up her picture and tell me she's not perfect. The song Marceline plays in this chapter in my head is "Chiyo's Prayer", from the Memoirs of a Geisha soundtrack, the film adaptation of the book that inspires me to write more than any other. I don't write fanfictions about it, because I think it's perfect and wouldn't change a word of it.

* * *

In my room, I had to catch my breath. Just seeing that old man appear was enough to send me spiraling. I wasn't ready to meet him yet. Wasn't ready to live alongside someone I hated. It was ironic, because technically I was only here because of him. Yet I hated him. I would always hate him for taking from my grandmother something that ought to be given willingly. She was dead now, so I doubly hated him. _He_ deserved to die first, like Malcolm died before Olivia.

There was a knock at my door. I composed myself, then I answered it.

It was Chris.

"Are you alright? You left so quickly."

He looked genuinely concerned for my well being, so I couldn't just say 'yes' and politely shovel him out the door.

"Yes, I'm fine..." I said, looking at the floor.

"Are you sure?"

I could see from his expression that he was smart enough to know that it was my grandfather's presence that disturbed me so. I decided to give him a nugget of truth.

"It's just the last time I spoke to my grandfather wasn't the most pleasent. I plan to say something to him, but I wasn't ready right then."

"Oh." he said, now looking uncomfortable. Trouble in paradise? Who ever heard of such a thing? He didn't press me for more information, and for this I was grateful. He looked around the room, taking in my luggage that had arrived.

"Well since you've gotten your things, maybe you could give us a little concert. My wife and I would enjoy it."

He put stress on "my wife" as if he were very aware I was trying to win her to my side. I knew he was rooting for me, which lessened the discomfort I had from having my detested grandfather appear suddenly. I had one friend at least.

"Sure." I said, brightening.

"Well great!" he said, giving me a winning smile. "Let's say in the music room? Nine O'clock?"

"Deal." I said, grabbing his hand and shaking it, which made him laugh.

After he left, I dragged a cushion onto the patio and collapsed to have a ciggarette.

Later on, I carried my new priceless antique violin and bow to the music room. Chris and Cathy were already waiting for me outside. Cathy looked impatient.

"Look, here she is now," I heard Chris hiss to her.

They opened the doors, and we all stepped inside. It was a good sized room, but it was masculine, with blood reds and dark wood furniture. There was a grand piano, I thought I would like to try it out, though I wasn't very gifted with piano yet. Chris and Cathy seated themselves in fine mahogany and brown leather armchairs with high backs, and I pulled the piano bench forward so I could sit and play, though I would have liked a stool. I cleared my throat. Chris leaned forward, appearing interested, but Cathy seemed far, far away.

I tuned the strings, feeling my hands shake a little. This was the first time I'd ever played a song I wrote in front of anybody. Not even my mother or grandmother had heard one. The song I had in mind was extremely personal, it was one I wrote for Adrian. I tried to capture his essence in notes so I'd never forget. Never forget the way he made me feel, or what he did for me, or how he had made me grow as a person. I crossed my legs and placed the violin on my breastbone. I began to play, filling myself with everything that Adrian was to me. The notes were long and drawn out and then trickled over one another like the water that flows over rocks in a stream. In my mind the colors of Adrian began to appear, shifting like wisps of smoke.

I don't really know when I started crying. Crying for Adrian, whose life had ended November 17th, who was my friend, my love, who had a piece of me always, from the moment he picked up the phone one icy morning. Who deserved to live a long happy life. I shouldn't have picked that song.

Alarmed, Chris and Cathy both rushed to my side when the violin slipped out of my hands and fell on the carpet making a twanging noise. I sobbed out all of this to them, all my secret thoughts of Adrian, and they didn't say those cliche'd words you say to the grieving. Words I'd heard over and over, words that were meaningless. No, they said none of those words to me, only covered me in their arms, and even Cathy embraced me warmly as I wailed into the front of her sweater.

"Why did he have to go? Go, and leave me here all by myself? Why did they _all _have to go?" I'd thought all my tears had dried up long ago, but here they were, making me weak and vulnerable again. I hated myself for crying in front of them.

"We're here, Marceline, we're here now, you're not alone." Cathy's arms were about me, and Chris was patting my back. She smelled of some rosy bath water, and I clung to her as I longed to cling to my own mother, who had been as much a part of me as Adrian was.

"Oh, Marceline, I know how it feels. I know the crushing bands that grow tighter and tighter around your chest, and the deep chasm that opens up inside you where that person used to be, and you've lost many people very quickly. I can't even imagine what you're feeling, but I do know that this isn't the end for you. Your music was beautiful and true. It made me want to dance again. You are meant to go on and let the world know how you feel. And you won't be alone in that, I promise you."

I sniffled and looked up at her. She was looking at me sincerely again and I wanted so badly to tell her everything. But I only nodded and looked away, dropping my arms.

"Thank you," I said. "I'm sorry I'm like this. I try not to be."

"It's human and it's natural, Marceline." Chris said, handing me a handkercheif.

Thus ended my first day back in Foxworth Hall. Both Chris and Cathy gave me the warmest hugs yet before we parted. I still worried that I'd made a terrible impression with everybody except Bart; my interaction with him had gone exactly the way I'd wanted it to. I wanted him to know that even covered in tattoos I was now somebody to be reckoned with. And yes, _respected_.

* * *

The next day, I was in the backseat of Chris's rented car. I had offered to drive them to the airport, but they made some big to do about saving me the gas, for my muscle car _was_ a gas guzzler. It was six days before Bart's birthday party, and we were going to pick up Cathy's firstborn, Jory and his wife.

Jory and his wife Melodie I'd actually heard of before I'd gone to Foxworth Hall more than a year ago. It had been in passing, but I remembered because I'd thought "Jory" was a strange name and assumed it was eastern European. My mother was a fan of the ballet and I fought with her one night when she wanted to watch the production of _Giselle_ during my favorite show.

In the car, thinking fondly of arguing with my mother made me want to dissolve in tears again, but I managed to swallow up my feelings. It was funny that I'd fought with her when really she'd been leading me to my own future.

We stood in the crowded waiting area by the gates, watching the passengers stream out of the small doorway in a steady spray, as if they were all piled up behind the door, like water in a pipe, waiting for someone to turn on the faucet. I wasn't looking forward to the explanation of who I was that was sure to follow a joyous reunion, but I came along with Chris and Cathy anyway because I would rather go through an awkward moment than spend one hour alone in that house without the comforting knowlegde that there was a friendly face nearby.

Suddenly Cathy became a veritable volcano of movement, appearing to explode from the shell she always hid herself so well inside. She was bouncing on her feet, waving and pointing to an indistinct spot in the throng of tired air travellers. She shouted,

"Jory! Jory!"

I was wholly unprepared for what I saw bounding toward Cathy in great strides, parting the crowd magically. A vision of my father sprang before my eyes as I took in the full sensuous lips, the jet black hair waved softly back from the temples. The tanned skin. The long muscular body. The large waiting area suddenly became bright and the metal frames of the chairs and the windows turned iridescent as I felt something stirring within me. Some great excited emotion that I can only compare to a high school crush. I mean it was the difference between seeing a boy in the hallways that you find devastatingly attractive and then suddenly having that same boy standing in your group of friends, talking to them. You feel startled and a strange churning in your middle as you stare openly, feasting your hungry eyes over all the details that you couldn't see from across the classroom. I wasn't even considering that he was my cousin or that his wife was just behind him. I couldn't focus on anything else but the sheer beauty of him, and the birth of a desire for him to look at me, speak to me, yet I was shrinking back, feeling self concious of my long sleeved white collared shirt and my black and grey pleated plaid skirt. I'd worn my glasses that day, for my eyes strained sometimes. How stupid of me. I looked like a school girl. I _felt_ like a school girl.

Jory and Cathy gushed over one another, her hands in his, while Melodie was being hugged by Chris. Finally, they all turned their eyes to me, and my body felt instantly hot, as though I'd been rubbed all over with sandpaper. Jory and Melodie appeared perplexed as Chris extended his arm to pull me forward into the group.

"Jory, Melodie, this is Marceline Deboreau, a Foxworth cousin all the way from New Orleans, and a gifted musician, I might add. Marceline this is our son, the _famous_ Jory Marquet and his wife."

"I have a cousin! Wow, nice to meet you, Marceline." Jory extended his hand.

Just to hear my name on his delicious looking lips was enough but to think my hand would touch his! Oh the electricity I felt shooting through my body as his bare skin touched mine was an ecstacy unlike anything I'd ever known, because it was so sinfully forbidden in more than one way. I unconciously bit my lower lip as we drew away, and then for a horrible moment I felt as though my secret thoughts had been relvealed as though I'd stood at a podium and announced them. I shook Melodies' hand, doing my very best to copy Adrians' best inscrutable eyes. Was this why he conjured it? So people wouldn't know what wicked thoughts he had in his head? _God, what had happened to me in the last five minutes?_

* * *

_I felt a stab in my gut when Marceline shook Jorys' hand. What on earth did I just see flicker across the polished surface of her eyes? She had a strangely blank expression now as if she'd wiped the shoal waters of her mind clean. Imagined it. Yes, I had only imagined the flare of longing in her brightest blue eye. Wasn't I always imagining things? Isn't that what Chris was always intoning religiously? Only imagined it, really I had, I had! _


	20. Wild Kingdom

Squashed in the backseat of the car, I was caught in a terrible windstorm. Cathy and Jory continiued to admire each other, while I was beside the window, almost sick to my stomach. Long before we got into the car a heavy, drumming tattoo of thoughts began to march in time with the beating of my hideous heart. Cousin. Wife. Cousin. Wife. _It's what the house wants. _I was on the brink of laughing hysterically. The house, always I came back to that house. _It was the fucking house. _It was always the house. The house had stalled the car, the house had soaped the floor of the bathtub. It wasn't about to just _let me go_, not after my little stunt. _Get a hold of yourself._

* * *

At the house, Jory and Melodie did more oohing and ahhing over its' opulence than I had. _They didn't know, yet, they didn't know._ Try as I might I couldn't seem to keep my eyes from straying to Jory. Luckily Cathy was too busy lavishing affection on her son to notice me. Although, I think she _did_ catch me once or twice. I don't know why I worried about it so, but I felt a certain hostility from her at those moments. She should know better than anyone about feelings of attraction toward family members. I felt both sickened and excited by those thoughts.

In one of the rooms overlooking a side lawn, Melodie threw her arms around Cathy.

"Go on, darling," Jory said to her in a soft tone.

I was too busy replaying his voice in my head as though he'd spoken to _me_ that way to notice what Melodie said. Cathy's happy shout broke my silent, secret reverie.

"Oh, Melodie, Jory, I'm so thrilled for you both. A baby! I'm going to be a grandmother!"

Ohhh. A baby. More glue to bind him to her. Amidst the cheap congradulatory remarks people always say, my stomach was dropping, ceasing its' lustful quake. I felt small, ungainly. Already I felt out of place among these people who were so close, but this new information made me feel even more an outsider. A moment ago my stomach had been dancing salsa, now it was sinking like a stone tossed into the river. I smiled, I added another generic comment, but I was deeply unhappy and unable to determine the reason. Even if there was no baby, he still had a beautiful wife, and there was the tiny matter of him being my cousin. Second cousin. Not closely related, but close enough. Less than a hundred years ago it was perfectly normal for second and third cousins to marry. Sometimes even first cousins. But in this family? Oh no, a third incest was redundant. Another wild urge to laugh. I reasoned that no, I was only lonely. I would find someone else once I was out of here, with Chris and Cathy and Cindy, who I had not met, on our way to Hawaii, and there I would find a surfer with sun bleached hair and killer pecs and _he_ would be my love toy. Not Jory. _Never_ Jory.

Melodie had seated herself on a couch and was flipping through a magazine. Jory and Chris were chatting about something. Cathy had looked out of a window, then opened the french door and called out,

"Bart! Your brother and his wife are here!"

"Be there in a sec," I heard a faint voice shout back. He sounded almost like a human being.

"Where are all the workers?" Jory asked, looking out at the gardens.

"Most of them leave around four, they want to drive home before they hit the traffic on route one."

They all started moving outside, and I followed, just one of the Foxworth clan. We stood on the side terrace, as Bart strode our way, smiling. Actually, genuinely, smiling. There wasn't a shred of the guy who'd tried to snap my spine yesterday. I was about to meet "Nice Bart". When Jory ran to greet him, I pulled in my breath. _Stop your gawking!_ I imagined him running to me that way. It seemed to fit nicely. I smiled to myself, a very secret smile. Bart and Jory exchanged the only affection men know how to give to each other, slaps, rumpling hair, shaking hands. They seemed to have a good relationship.

Bart scanned Melodie up and down before he said to her,

"Hi, Melodie."

He then went on to congradulate Jory some more for his success as a danseur. Jory told him proudly of the baby that was to be in January, and Bart turned once again to look Melodie over. Loathe as I was to admit it to myself, she was truly beautiful. Her face and softly waved dark blonde hair made me think of a renaissance painting of an angel I'd seen in a museum. Her tiny curved nose and rosebud lips all screamed "Italy, 1517". The afternoon sunlight around her head added to the effect.

"Pregnancy becomes you, Melodie." Bart said almost as softly as Jory had spoken earlier. I had never imagined Bart sounding like that. _Ah, what is this? More trouble in paradise brewing. _What was the matter with me?

Suddenly Bart turned his eyes toward the door, and I looked, feeling a stab of tension suddenly arise in my gut. Joel, my dear grandfather was standing in the doorway watching the family gathering. Funnily, Cathy looked as displeased as I was that he had to be there. But she gestured him forward nonetheless.

"Come, let me introduce you to my brother and his wife." Bart called.

Joel took an eternity to come forward and stand beside me. I shifted away unconciously, and folded my arms over my chest. He didn't shake their hands.

"I hear that you are a dancer." he said to Jory.

God I was disgusted with him. Not only disgusted in my head, but actually made ill when he spoke. My stomach churned and I had the desire to vomit. _Or strike him._ I never thought I could be so physically repulsed just by the sound of a persons' voice. I was so immersed in my dislike for him that I forgot to pay attention to what Jory was saying.

Then suddenly he turned and was leaving, as if he sensed my violent thoughts. I could breathe again.

"Who was that weird old man?" Jory asked his mother. "I thought both of your uncles died in accidents when they were young."

She shrugged while Bart explained about Joel's reappearance. He added the part about me as though I were an afterthought, after giving me the same sort of glance he might give a passing car on the highway. Up until then, he'd acted like I was one of the plants on the terrace, in my clay pot. But I didn't care, not when Jory said to me, with a note of mild surprise,

"Oh, so you're more closely related than I thought."

"I'm a veritable treasure chest of surprises, Jory." I said, smiling, looking at him with my head ducked down and my arms behind my back. If he'd been a guy at a club I might have chosen that moment to bite my lower lip. That time, both Melodie and Cathy turned their heads to stare at me. _Oops, can not risk anything so openly flirtatious again._

* * *

After they'd had Jory and his _lovely_ wife established in a rich dark masculine suite, (Bart had made another odd, admiring remark toward Melodie), we all had a light early dinner and sat out on the terrace, looking at the orange sky deepening into tones of purplish pink. Joel wasn't there, thank God, and the atmosphere was sleepy and comfortable. I was happy to listen while they talked, raising a cigarette to my lips occasionally. I fancied I was getting a glimpse into a world I'd never known, a world with two parents instead of one, a middle class world, with brothers and sisters to fill up playtime. I was happy to answer a question or two from Jory and Melodie about this or that. Chris was boastful about my musical talents, and I felt the affection I was beginning to have for him grow just a little bit more. Bart couldn't seem to keep his dark eyes from registering every move Melodie made, and I like to think I was more subtle in my watching of Jory. Couldn't let another moment like out on the west terrace happen again.

At the breakfast table the next day, same thing. Bart watching Melodie, me glancing at Jory. I was absolutely certain that Cathy had caught on to Bart at least, from the uneasy way she shifted her gaze to him. Chris was laughing at something funny Jory had said, when Cathy called,

"Joel, step forward and come join us for breakfast."

I thought it was a funny way for her to say it, like a judge calling up the defendant. _Step forward._ He sidled out from under the giant palm tree, looking like a scared cat cautiously advancing upon a plate of meat pushed toward it by a friendly hand. I felt the familiar revulsion, but it was little more than vague queasiness. I was adjusting. He stood behind me, making me fidget, and he smiled and politely answered the questions Jory and Melodie asked about his life as a monk. He didn't seem like the man who'd slapped me and called me a whore. Yet he was that man. He'd always be that man, whatever facade he showed to someone else, people more important than me perhaps. Then the worst thing of all.

"It takes all kinds to make the world go round," He said, "And the Lord giveth before the Lord taketh away."

And then, he put his hand on my shoulder and he squeezed. Not hard, or in any way that would suggest anything other than affection for his only grandchild, but when I looked at him, I looked past the benign smile, and saw that his eyes were cold, mocking. Then he went away. Cathy was looking at me, probably to see my reaction. She really didn't miss a trick. How had I looked? Scared? Disgusted? Angry? I wasn't sure what made her look at me like that.

Shortly afterward, Bart had his morning outburst. I was glad he, at least, didn't hide his temper from his family. No, everyone got a kick from those devastating hooves sooner or later, even Melodie. He stormed off.

Chris and Cathy offered to show Jory and Melodie the grounds. They invited me, but I declined, tired of seeing Jory look at Melodie in that special way.

As they walked off, I watched them, taking my cigarettes out of my pocket. I thought about how often I compared people to animals these days. Cathy, she was a doe. Cautious, alert, graceful, but with powerful legs that could do some real damage if she chose. Chris, being Cathy's counterpart, was the stag, watching and protecting the herd with dignity and a certain nobility that was beautiful and majestic. Jory, the gazelle, son of the deer, limber, long legged, with a fluidity of movement so like Adrian's and yet different. Melodie as the swan, gliding across the water, ethereal beauty incarnate. Bart, as I've said, the wild black stallion, bucking spasmodically, not caring who or what his legs pummel. Joel...Joel was the sly old cat, sleeping with one eye open. Whatever he said, Joel looked out for Joel.

And me. March, 1976. The dragon. How odd. The only mythical beast in the pack. What was the dragon's significance? In western culture, the dragon is depicted as a boorish beast, who hordes treasure, terrorizes the local populace, and occasionally lays seige to the castle. But in eastern culture, the dragon is powerfully magical, brings good fortune, heals the sick, and protects the people. Yes, maybe that was my role. What a marvellous thought. Reddish black scaled snakelike body with silver eagle tallons, wrapping itself around the people, to protect them from attack. The people all love the dragon, for the dragon is a symbol of strength, the dragon is a symbol of prosperity.

Adrian would have told me these things said a lot more about me than about them.

* * *

Later I stood with Chris and Cathy and watched as Jory flew around the surface of the ballroom floor. His movements were so smooth, it was as if the marble were ice and he was skating it effortlessly. _The Firebird_ was playing, and he held me mesmerized, as he whirled and leaped, bounding across the African savannah. You couldn't even hear the sound of his feet hitting the floor.

"Would you look at those jetes?" Chris said to Cathy. "Why, he clears the floor by twelve feet or more!"

"Ten feet, not twelve," Jory laughed, spinning past.

He fell down breathlessly on a floor mat he'd put there so he could rest.

"Damned hard floor if I fall," he gasped, leaning back on his elbows.

Looking at him stretched out on his back like that, muscles and bulges revealed by the leotards, breathing heavily, I felt a stirring in my body, crying out to go sit on top of him, push him down, and kiss him. My eyes lingered on the raised lumps between his thighs, and I drew in my breath through my teeth, then let it out in an audible sigh. Cathy turned around to look at me, and this time I didn't look away but rubbed my forehead as though I were tired and that's why I sighed.

They were talking about the longevity of male dancers, and I couldn't agree more with Cathy as she went to sit down with him.

"Jory you are going to last longer than most danseurs so stop worrying. It's a long and glamourous road you have to travel to reach forty, and who knows, maybe you'll be fifty before you retire."

"Yeah, sure." he said, tucking his hands behind his head and looking up at the distant painted ceiling. "Fourteen in a long line of male dancers has to be the lucky number doesn't it?"

Then Melodie came down the stairs in blue leotards looking virginal, like a lily with fresh spring raindrops glistening on its' white petals.

"Dance with me, lover," she'd said. "Dance and dance, and then let's dance some more."

Jory was up and whirling to the foot of the stairs, holding his hand out to her, looking like the prince calling to Rapunzel to let her magical goldenrod hair down.

"My pleasure, my lady."

They began to dance with such syncronicity, I wondered how they did it with no cue, no practice, only with their eyes signaling to each other. Cathy looked teary eyed, and I knew she was thinking of the first husband she'd written about in her second book. From her description, Jory looked just like him. Chris put his arm around her shoulder and told her how he could see her dancing with Julian, that must be his name. He said only Catherine had been more beautiful than Melodie.

From behind us, I heard a derisive snort. Cathy and I whipped around at the same moment. Bart and Joel stood behind us, watching the improv preformance. Bart's eyes were still following Melodie as if she were made of iron and he had magnet implants in his retnas.

When they were finished, Bart applauded and asked that they dance at his birthday party. Jory explained that while he could preform, Melodie's obstatrician had discouraged her from doing anything but light practicing. Bart protested, and I watched as Jory became more irritated. Sensing an argument, I went back to my room to work on a new song.

* * *

After loading the hookah and enjoying its' merriment, I sat on my patio and played the accoustic guitar, fine tuning the melody that _something_ had inspired in me. A new emotion that was startling in its' contrast to what I'd been feeling for months. I played long into the evening, pausing only to smoke another cigarette and jot down a few more lyrics. When I was finished, I thought I might go and make a snack, then try my new song out in the foyer, for I had skipped dinner. I won't say that part of me wanted some adoration of my own. No, I won't say that.

Walking through the hall, I felt that the french styled opulence of the house was quite dull. Bart was a modern guy, why not give the house a modern twist? But then again, from looking at it, it was exactly the way I pictured it in the books. Perhaps that was the plan all along? Why would he do that? Of course he hadn't known about the evil of the house then. If he had, perhaps it would have been decorated differently. But why would he build the rooms to the exact dimension, and give them the exact same qualities? Didn't he know that even if a house is destroyed, the spirits still remain in their dimensions? Wait, what was I thinking? Bart was ignorant. Bart wouldn't consider that.

I stopped short. I pulled in my breath. For there, just ahead of me splayed in the foyer, were two naked bodies, arms and legs intertwined making me think of two trees I saw once whos' roots had begun to grow into one another above the ground. Stuck to each other like two pieces of rice, they were having sex in such a way that I could feel as far down as my knees. Their hair was damp and plastered to their foreheads. Their lips remained locked as Jory thrusted powerfully, making Melodie let out muffled moaning noises. I had sense enough to duck into an open door where I could watch safely.

I was unaware that I had touched my hand to my chest and was lightly caressing it, I was so enraptured with Jory's style. He took deep thrusts accompanied by little hip rotations. Occasionally he broke the long kiss to groan and whisper things to her, things I didn't hear, but from his tone alone, I still tingled and throbbed most pleasingly. He appearance suggested that he was a sweet lover, but in reality he was quite bold and full of some wild emotional energy I couldn't describe. After a few more moments of my furtive observation I realized; it was passion. Passion so intense, so vigorous, that it ruled this man. When he danced he radiated it, and it spilled over into his love making, like a cascading waterfall.

Then it was over, long before I'd had enough. They stood and shyly put on their clothes, just like a couple of teenagers, giving each other long meaningful looks. Melodie claimed she was exhausted and was going up to bed.

"I bet you're tired," Jory said, giving her a playful smack on her bottom, which made her giggle. She went upstairs while Jory was clearing up the mat and the ballet CDs and boom box. With Melodie gone, I could approach him while he was still glowing from the experience.

After a moments' pause, I strode into the hall at a quick pace, as though I were on my way somewhere.

"Oh. Hey Jory. Practicing again?" I said, pretending I had just noticed him. He looked startled as he turned his head in my direction.

"Hi, Marceline. Yeah, I try to practice every day. Sometimes I can't pull myself away from it."

"I bet not. You seem to love it so deeply." I said, smiling at him. He smiled too, a sly smile to himself, imagining only he knew what he'd just done. He looked at the guitar in my hands.

"I see you've come to practice too? My dad's been going on and on about your music."

"Yeah," I said modestly, looking down at it. "I came to play in here, the accoustics are excellent."

"They are." he said, putting his hand to his chin thoughtfully, his eyes roving around the rooms dimensions. Then he planted himself down on the folded mat, and said,

"So? Show me what you got."

I felt suddenly hot.

"Oh. Um. Okay."

I sat cross legged on one of the couches, and began to tune the guitar, glancing at Jory, who had his eyes riveted on me at last, but only with mild curiosity.

I began to play a rift of seven notes, wanting to sing the words, but too afraid that Jory would glean the meaning in them. I only played the song I wrote for him, letting all the complicated emotions and lustful thoughts come out in the music. The basic rift was the constant torture of my incessant thoughts. My hand moving up the strings in the arpeggio was the tactile caress I would give. I closed my eyes thinking of all I would do to him. Melodie just lie there and let him give her pleasure, but _I_ would give him so much more. I'd give him sensations he could taste, I'd show him things that he could feel right down to his toes. He'd never known love like mine.

I felt a puff of air on my face and I opened my eyes slowly as if I were in a dream. Jory was dancing, dancing to my music. He whirled past, dancing just as passionately as he had earlier. I had given him the urge to dance. When the song was over, he stopped, looking somewhat crestfallen, but smiling at me.

"You really have a great talent." he said breathlessly.

"Baby, you have no idea." I said under my breath.

"You should compose, or start a band or something." He went on casually.

"I've been considering it. You know, when I first met Bart, he said I looked like I was in a band."

"I bet he wasn't too kind."

"I see you know him."

He chortled.

"Well that's Bart."

I smiled at him. He picked up the mat, the CDs, the boombox, and went up the stairs too lightly for someone with so much in their arms.

You're a song written by the hands of God

Dont get me wrong, cause this might sound to you a bit odd

but you move the place where all my thoughts go hiding

right under your clothes

is where I find them


	21. The Serpents Strike

I was born on March 31st, 1976, a fire dragon, my mother proclaimed. In a book at the library about the chinese zodiac, it said that dragon women fairly exude sexuality and there is a decidedly exotic air about them. The fire element dragon is a powerful force to be reckoned with. Though they value objectivity, they do not always employ the best desicion making measures, and sometimes jump to the wrong conclusion. They also suffer from recklessness. Being an Aries as well, this implicates that as my story continiues, you'll expect to see my behavior escalate to extremes. Whether what I've done is extreme or not I really don't know, the reader may judge for him or herself. I will say this though, Foxworth Hall is no ordinary house. It has made people do _reckless_ things over the years. But that's just my opinion.

The next day brought Cindy, who made me think of a bluebird, fluttering her teenage wings breathlessly. Bart was more rude to her, his own sister, than he'd been even to me. Perhaps he wasn't really more rude, but rather because she was young and in doubt of herself like every teen, his harsh words hurt her more than they had me. It was painful to watch.

The long days of summer at Foxworth Hall were beautiful but awkward at times for me. I still struggled to find my place in the family. With Joel and Bart popping up occasionally to ruin the moment, it became almost unbearable. In another life, I probably wouldn't have associated with any of them. But that life was gone, snatched away by...something. That didn't keep me from looking back on what life was once and what it could have been if I'd never heard of Foxworth Hall.

I tried to ignore the presence of it, but it seeped up from the floorboards, like the floodwaters during hurricane season. It lurked around corners, hid in the shadows, silently cackling at the discomfort everyone felt.

Despite my statements when I came here, I spent a good deal of my time by myself, wandering the grounds, hanging out in my room, always trying and failing to stave off my thoughts of Jory. Thinking about it analytically, I wondered if I was using Jory as a distraction from the horrible truth about this house. It didn't really matter. I would be leaving soon. I talked mostly to Cindy who was too young to be wary of me. I was the only one at Foxworth Hall close enough to her age to understand and relate to her. We'd broken the ice when she told me how much she liked my top, a sheer silk black collared shirt I wore with a black spaghetti strap tank underneath. Her enthusiasm was refreshing, and once she smoked with me in my room. We spent an afteroon cracking each other up, and I discovered that there was great deal her parents didn't know about her. On the whole, Cindy wasn't a bad sort, only dying to be grown and have grown relationships, like any other girl her age.

When the party workers began constructing a stage, I had an idea. I had enough money to buy a spectacular preformance for Bart's party, and in this way, I could introduce myself properly to the family. I'd already written a song that would do the job wonderfully in Arizona. The preformace would serve a dual purpose and pull on their heart strings, while showing them who I was. I quickly and feverishly set to work, calling everyone I knew, all the aquaintances I'd made in New York during fashion week. I thought it was funny that I never saw a poster for the ballet while I was there, but maybe I had, and I wasn't looking properly then.

I paid off Bart's party planner when I caught him leaving for the day, so he'd put aside a spot for me in the show. After discussing my idea with him, he said it'd be a wonderful surprise for Bart. He still took the five thousand dollars.

I'd please everyone, even Bart.

* * *

Early on Bart's special day, I left the house and drove into Charlottesville to get my hair done, and a few other things of an asthetic nature. I was nervous, excited, and just a little pleased with myself. Edwin Collins' "Never Met a Girl Like You" was playing in the salon, and I tapped my toes to it, and I felt the same power surging within me that I'd felt walking out of the Library. I felt sexy, strong, all woman. _Tonight._

_Tugging free, I had climbed five steps when Bart appeared with a satisfied smirk on his handsome but momentarily evil face. He whispered as he passed,_

_"I just gave her what you never did. A thorough spanking. If she can sit for a week comfortably, she's got an ass made of iron." _

_I glanced backward in time to see Joel scowl at the use of that word. Ignoring Joel for a change, smiling like the perfect host, Bart arranged us into a receiving line. I wondered where Marceline could be, for I hadn't seen her all that day. Not a moment after I'd thought of it, I heard a tapping on the stairs. I turned slowly to look and I gasped. Chris noticed immeadiately and looked too. Soon we were all looking at the top right of the stairs._

_Marceline was wearing a silver strapless gown that was tight on the bust and flowing down to the hem that brushed the floor. It was silk with thousands of pin sized silver sequins to make the light jump from one side of it to the other. A silver and diamond brooch was fastened to the front of the bust in the shape of a star burst, and on her wrists were silver cuffs attached to a long, sheer, sparkling silver train that draped down in a long U shape on both sides. She'd had her bangs pinned back and her hair was twisted in the front around her skull and hung free in the back. She wore a designed silver party mask on her face with black feathers on one side to curl up around her temple. Her eyes were pointed toward the ground, and a small smile was upon her lips, as if she knew how dazzling she looked. In her arms she carried a large rectangular box wrapped in silver paper and tied with a black ribbon. The most shocking thing about her appearance was the vanishing of her tattoos! Now how in the world had she done that? _

_She descended the stairs in a dreamy fashion, looking like a fairy queen, her eyes glued to the floor. When she neared the bottom, she flashed her eyes at Jory, and my heart jumped in my chest, for it appeared for a moment that she had given herself over very briefly to strong feelings she was trying to hide. She approached Bart, still smiling that queer little smile, and held the box out to him._

_"Happy Birthday, Bart." she said. _

_He gestured wordlessly, open mouthed, to the gift table. She bent her knees and her head in a slight bow, then glided over to the table, placing her gift that just had to be a designer suit on top of the enormous pile. She had hair extensions in and they hung all the way down her back. She whirled to face us with a luminous happiness on her face. _

_"You all look so wonderful. And Bart these decorations are spectacular, truly."_

_"I love that dress." Melodie said. _

_"Thank you. I see you're wearing the Chanel empire gown. New York all the way." _

_Melodie laughed charmingly as Bart peeled his eyes off of Marceline and turned to look at Melodie yet again._

_"Ever the fashionista." Chris said. _

_"Where's Cindy?" Marceline peered around. _

_I turned to Chris to look at him helplessly, and he swooped in to rescue me as he always had. _

_"She's changing, she should be along shortly." _

* * *

Bart was a charming and gracious host to everyone who came pouring into the house. I suspect it was the custom dress and the airbrushed tattoos that made Bart introduce me as his cousin with as much sincerity as if he truly considered me a part of his family. The faces of the guests all blurred into a wash as their numbers increased exponentially. Cindy looked ruffled as she came down, her face was flushed and she and Bart had a few words. Their fight looked like it was going to escalate, but Chris yanked them apart and put his foot down. I always liked it when Chris acted as the disciplinarian. Can't really say why.

Soon we were out in the gardens which looked a marvel. The round orb paper lanterns, the flowers, the table cloths, the sumptuous spread of decadent food and drink, the ice sculpture. It sprawled below us, glowing golden orange and the atmosphere was warm, romantic, and merry. The mountains with the sun sunk under them were lined with a pink haze against an inky darkness that descended from the heavens. The scent of the flowers and the promise of taking off my makeup later to find my skin glowing from the satisfaction of a long evening was enough to put a smile on my face, even though I knew none of the guests, which might have made me self concious otherwise.

Jory and Melodie had Cindy introduced to the younger guests, and soon she had taken the lead, with Bart distracted enough not to crush her fledgling spirit. About five young men hung about her like a pack of wolves, seemingly taking in every word she said, yet she didn't seem to notice their eyes dashing to her breasts and quickly up again, making them look like they all had ticks. It made me laugh as I watched them all fighting it out for her favor.

Not that I didn't notice different men staring at me too as I passed to pick at this or that food item. The mardi gras mask seemed to have the strange effect of making me the exotic mystery woman. I was the female Count of Monte Cristo...Different Men stopped and tried to talk to me, all ages, married or no, but I always said something vague and flitted away, leaving them staring. One of them, I think he was one of Barts' friends from Europe, did not simply allow me to walk away; where I went, he followed. He persistantly insinuated that before the night was over he was going to sleep with me.

Finally he really started to get on my nerves as I stood by the champagne fountain to watch Jory talking to his friends from New York. Where Melodie was, I couldn't say.

The leech was stroking my shoulder, leaning toward me drunkenly, saying all manner of things that I was grateful no one was around to hear. All patience gone, I pushed his hand away roughly.

"Look, there is no way in Hell you're getting into this dress tonight, so run along back to your wife."

He laughed, took a deep draught of his drink, which spilled out of the corners of his mouth and said,

"Fiesty girl. All your abraisive behavior means to me is that you're a hellcat in the bed."

"Pretty big words for a cephlopodic gibbon."

"What?"

"I mean you're an ape with the brain of a squid!"

He smiled, looked off into the crowd, then suddenly advanced close enough for me to smell his liquored breath. I bet if I held a lighter up to his mouth it'd create a fire stream.

"Make any joke you want gattino. You and I both know we're gonna end up pressed together in one of those pretty rooms upstairs."

I began to back away, resisting the urge to spit in his face. His hand shot out and grabbed my arm. I pulled, but his grip tightened. I was about to open my mouth, scream at him and ruin this party, when Jory did something very kind.

"Marceline, there you are," He said, striding toward us. "You promised me a dance, cousin."

He looked directly at the man holding my forearm, and he promptly dropped it, looking Jory up and down, seeing that the latter was several inches taller than he. As Jory ushered me onto the dance floor, I heard him call out,

"Ciao, bella."

I didn't look back, but stared up wonderingly at Jory, who looked back at me, an easy, genuine smile on his face.

"Why did you do that?" I asked.

"You didn't look like you were enjoying yourself. Was I mistaken?"

"No, you weren't. But you may live to regret it."

"Why do you say that?" he said, looking amused.

"I can't dance to save my life. You might be embarassed."

"Anyone with Brazillian blood can dance."

"Maria Maria" by Carlos Santana was being played by the dj when Jory took one of my hands and put it on his shoulder. The other he held in his away from his body. When his other hand went to the small of my back, undreneath the expensive hair extensions, and I felt its' light pressure there, that's when my insides began to quiver.

"Don't think about it." He said, as he began to sway to the music. "Just feel it, it comes from the hips, don't worry about the feet. Like this."

He pressed me to him, so I could feel his hips rocking back and fourth, side to side. I closed my eyes and listened to the music, and as it filled me, I swayed with Jory.

"There you go," he said, pulling away. "You got it! You're a natural."

He held my body, and we rocked and swayed faster, and I realized that my feet were moving in a kind of slow double step without my even telling them to. I smiled excitedly at him and he laughed merrily.

"I have to ask," he said. "How did you cover up your tattoos?"

I shrugged.

"I just got them air brushed, models do it before they shoot, to cover imperfections."

"They did a great job. You know without them, its' like I can really see you."

"Oh. You don't like them. Nobody does."

"I do, I do. I think they're good artwork, it's just I think you hide behind them."

I stared at him. He wasn't looking at me in any special way, he just smiled, his full lips turned upward so pleasingly. I had the urge to kiss him again. I was close enough to do it. Lean forward, tilt my head back, let my hand slide from his shoulder to his neck and brush those bursting lips softly with mine. Just do it. Now he was looking at me with his dark blue eyes half closed, as if he saw everything I was thinking and it pleased him. He was looking at me not as a married man looks at his cousin, but as a man at a party looks at a mysterious masked woman. Probably this was just how the Prince looked at Cinderella. Then the song was over, just like the clock striking twelve, and the spell was broken. He blinked, cleared his throat and drew away from me. He looked away.

"Yuri likes you." he said, looking back at me and nodding his head at someone amidst the party guests. I looked at a handsome young man with sculpted features and recognized him as one of Jory's fellow dancers. He'd been watching us from the buffet. When he saw me looking, he inclined his head slightly in my direction, his eyes full of desire. Looking past him, I saw Bart leading Melodie around, introducing her to his friends as though she were his wife and not Jory's. She was Jory's wife.

"Oh does he?" I said sadly.

"Yeah. You should go talk to him. I'll introduce you if you want."

"You'd better go and rescue your wife." I said, recognizing a note of bitterness in my tone.

"I see her over there. She can handle Bart, but you're probably right."

"Thanks for saving me from the Italian, Jory." I said.

"You're welcome."

* * *

_I was spared the need to answer by the blast of many trumpets. The entertainment began as Bart's guests seated themselves with plates of food and drinks. Bart and Melodie came to join us, while Cindy and Jory ran to warm up in practice outfits before they changed into elaborate costumes. Marceline was gone, I couldn't see her anywhere. Perhaps she'd gone off with that Italian dignitary I'd seen her talking to. Soon the professional entertainers had me laughing along with everyone else. _

_What a wonderful party! I glanced often at Chris, at Bart and Melodie, who sat near us. The summer night was perfect. The mountains all around enclosed us in a friendly romantic ring, and I was again amazed that I could see them as anything but formidable barriers to keep freedom forever out of reach. I was happy to see Melodie laughing and most of all, happy to see Bart really having a good time. He shifted his chair closer to mine._

_"Would you say my party is a success, mother?" _

_"Yes, oh, indeed, yes Bart, you've outdone anything I've ever attended. It's a marvelous party. The evening is breathtakingly beautiful, with the stars and moon overhead, and all your colored lights. When does the ballet begin?" _

_He smiled and put his arm lovingly about my shoulders. His voice was tender with understanding when he asked, _

_"Nothing for you equals the ballet does it? And you won't be disappointed. You just wait to see if New York or London can equal my production of Samson and Delilah." _

_Then the loud voices of the comedians ceased and I heard the crowd chittering excitedly. We both looked around at the guests hastily looking at their programs. Then Bart's mouth fell open. For there, in the spot light, Marceline stood with her violin and bow, her head held high, looking at the crowd with the same confident little smile on her face. _

_"Ladies and Gentleman," she said into the microphone. "I apologize for the break in your regularly scheduled programming. Tonight we have some very special surprise guests for your entertainment. Ladies and Gentleman, may I present myself and the skilled preformers of Cirque Du Soleil!_

_The was a simultanious "Oooh." all around the stage darkened. The curtain raised and there was nothing but velvety blackness beyond. Then a light came on and a blonde high up on a metal trapeze swing was illuminated. She had a painted doll face and costume reminiscent of Coppelia. She began to swing as the trilling of a violin began.. First the violin, but other music came, electronic, techno music. The combination was surprising and beautiful. The girl, who couldn't have been older than fifteen rocked back and fourth, as colored lights appeared behind her on the wall, shifting kalidoscopically. Then, as the rest of the stage was lit up in eerie blue moonlight, people began to descend on either side of the girl, dressed in elaborate flower costumes that glittered with sequins and rhinestones. As the music soared, the flowers swung side to side, their knees locked around metal bars. At every break in the hauntingly beautiful music, another flower dropped out of thin air to be caught by the other preformer, to gasps and applause. There were three long chains of flowers swinging back and forth as the girl on the swing flipped her body around and around it, swinging front to back. Daisies, roses, pansies, violets, lilies, and tulips swung back and forth in the artificial windstorm created by the girl and her swing. Her eyes were closed and she smiled as if she were imagining something that gave her pleasure. Perhaps she was thinking of boys, and dates, and friends and the world beyond the attic garden. Chris reached for my hand and the colored lights flashed as the music intoned its' melancholy wistful calling. At the songs highest note, the girl, forgetful of the ground below, leapt from the swing, and flew through the air toward the audience! _

_The stage went black for a split second as everyone gasped, then the lights suddenly snapped on in a firey red color just in time to see a blonde boy doll on another swing stretch out his arms and catch the girl. There was wild applause as the two dolls swung together, their arms clasped. Then as the song slowed, they climbed up to the swing and stood side by side, swinging together and looking into each others' eyes, and seemed unaware of anything beyond themsevles and their secret, forbidden love. The stage lights went out._

* * *

I watched the audience' reaction from behind the stage curtain. Everyone clapped and cheered as the acrobats took their bows, but I was searching for Cathy. She was applauding with them, pausing only to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. Then she and Chris looked at each other for a long time. Bart was clapping too, smiling at his guests as though he'd known all along. He must have been two shades of pale when he first saw me up there.

I felt hands grab my shoulders from behind, and I turned to find Cindy there in full makeup and costume. Jory stood just behind her, giving me a glowing look.

"That was amazing! How did you put all that together without anyone realizing?"

"A magician never reveals his secrets." I said looking back out at the stage again. She laughed. "You guys better get ready, you're on next."

I stowed my violin away and saw Joel on my way out of the back. He had his head tilted up toward the rafters. I was so flushed from my success, I didn't even ask what he was doing there.

As I made my way back through the tables, the party guests all clapped and cat called. I sat down next to Chris.

"I hope you're not mad, Bart." I said, leaning forward. "I wanted to surprise you."

He was taking a sip of drink, and looking at me over the rim of his glass.

"I was at first." He confessed. "But it turned out well, so I forgive you, this time." he smiled at me. It seemed that nothing could bring him down on this day. I suppose his lack of fury was his way of saying thank you.

"Chris, Cathy, what did you think?" I asked.

Cathy smiled at me warmly and Chris leaned forward, with a twinkle in his eye, saying in a low voice,

"I thought your homage to us was very beautiful and heartfelt. Thank you."

We all leaned back to watch the ballet. I sighed with ease. I was exhausted from the stress of preforming publicly for the first time, but there was something peaceful in me at that moment. I finally felt like I belonged.

As the ballet began I was once again absorbed in watching Jory's display of excellence. His muscles shadowed by the stage lights looked divine and I could see in his face that he was devoted to the part. It was as if he truly believed he was Samson. He whirled, he leapt and all the while I could only marvel at him, and allow myself in this moment to be lost in my dreams of him. That is why dreams are such dangerous things. They smoulder on as a fire does and sometimes consume us completely.

Only in the last act did I become afraid. When the impish dwarves dragged Samson out by chains did I really begin to fear for his life. I shook myself, for I had shivered in the warm night. I looked around at everyone's faces. Bart appeared to be on the edge of his seat, and Melodie was looking away, some pained emotion on her face. Chris had his hand to his chin, his brows drawn together, as if he were only watching the ballet analytically. But it was Cathy's expression that really startled me. What was she seeing up there? What had come to put her heart in her eyes like that? They appeared wide blue orbs, shining; wet with moisture that was pooling around her lids. As I watched, a clear bead spilled down her cheek. She was not looking at the stage as a lover of ballet touched by the beauty of a preformance, but as a mother watching her son being led to the electric chair!

I looked back toward the stage thinking that any mother would be alarmed to see her son being treated so brutally even if it was fake. Yes, that had to be it. It was the only explanation. Yet the longer I watched, the more agitated I became. I shifted in my seat, squinting at the stage, for I had the sensation that a soft wind was blowing on my eyes. They felt cold and wet. My heart was pumping madly, my stomach was squirming, my intestines sliding over each other. My palms were wet as Samson stood underneath the columns, pushing, pushing. Then, it was as if a fog lifted and I finally saw it. I knew what was going to happen a split second before it did. Cathy sat up straight and still, as if her chair had been electrified.

The columns in the temple scene toppled, and just before the curtain closed, I saw Jory go down. If Cathy had not leapt to her feet and screamed, I would have thought it was all part of the act. To see Chris's tailcoats whipping wildly as he rushed toward the stage, I was filled with sickening dread. Cathy had sunk to her knees in the grass. Applause thundered even while Bart was lifting his mother's weak form, looking from side to side to see if anyone else had noticed the accident. Then he was half carrying her toward the stage while she raved incoherently, her hand at her throat. Not sure what to do, I trailed behind them, but not before I noticed my grandfather's face. He was standing just behind the table, his face split in a wide cheshire cats' grin, while he clapped his hands slowly with the audience. I scowled at him. He saw me and stopped clapping immeadiately, his smile falling just as if the strings holding it had been cut. He pointed his eyes to the ground.

Whipping around, I ran toward the stage. It was my grandfathers' expression that frightened me the most that night.

Back stage, Jory lay sprawled, face down, blood running over his beautiful body freely. His family and friends were clustered around him like he was already dead. Cathy was on her knees beside him moaning, shaking with grief. Melodie was screaming,

"Jory! Jory! Please don't die!"

My hands were like claws as I threw them to my temples, nails digging in. My eyes grew wide as I stared over the body. The curse! The curse! It's the Curse of Foxworth Hall!

"What did you say?"

Chris was behind me, his face white as a sheet. I hadn't realized I'd spoken aloud. I began to hyperventilate. I stuffed the back of my hand in my mouth as tears came to run over the sides of my mask. I turned away from the body and crouched down like a child to tuck my head into my knees. And I wept.

In no time at all, the ambulance was there as if they'd been standing by, perhaps knowing that Foxworth parties often led to bodily harm.

"Will he live?" I heard Cathy's faint voice even through the chaos.

"Yes he'll live."

That's all I heard before the metal doors of the ambulance clanged shut.

* * *

By this time everyone was crowded on the drive, trying to get a look at one of the worlds' greatest dancers. As the ambulance roared off, sirens wailing, people all began to talk at once, and I heard several weeping, probably other dancers. I had stopped crying and my whole face felt like a mask. Cindy was hanging on my shoulder, still in costume, crying quietly. I tilted my head down to touch hers with my cheek. I didn't have any words of comfort for her, because I knew such words were empty. I only patted her shoulder, and rubbed her back, a poor substitute for a mother.

Bart was already restoring order, waving his hands and telling everyone to go back to the gardens, and that Jory had only suffered a mild concussion. One of the young boys came over to hug Cindy around the middle, and gladly she turned from me, nestling her head on his shoulder, while he stroked her back. He began to lead her away, but I grabbed his shoulder. I leaned in to whisper in his ear that if he took advantage of her, I would hand his nuts to him on a silver platter. He looked petrified and assured me that he would do no such thing, nodding his head like a parrot.

After they'd left, I saw the Italian making his way toward me through the retreating crowd. I was ready to flee, but then Yuri was in front of me, asking if I was all right. Without a moments hesitation I threw my arms around his shoulders. I was happy to see the Italian turn away to walk back up the steps.

"I'm sorry." I said to Yuri. "It's just so awful."

"It is all right." he said, in a husky, thick, eastern european accent. "You must forgive me."

"What have you done?" I asked, pulling away from him.

"I haff not been able to take my eyes off you all evening."

Without the slightest inkling of discretion I planted my lips on his and kissed him. He jerked back in surprise, but was soon returning the kiss with all haste. He squeezed my body to his and I felt his passion growing between us. Devoid of all prudence, I led him back to my room and allowed my grief, and my aches of longing to wash over him. His dancers body had pleased me greatly, and several times I had the urge to call out the name "Jory" during our encounter.

Around two thirty the party wound down, and people began to depart in large groups. Bart sat on the front steps, too drunk now to stand and wish his guests goodbye. They waved cheerily and most acted as though nothing had happened. Only the other dancers appeared to have anything at all to say about Jory. They told Bart to give him their love, and he agreed as solumnly as the alchohol would allow. Cindy fervently kissed the young man goodbye, out of sight of Bart of course. Yuri, one of the last to leave, kissed my hand and said,

"You vill call me yah?"

"Of course." I said, smiling. I knew I never would.

I sat down next to Bart and lit his cigarette for him. He couldn't seem to find his lighter. Looking at the bright flame in front of his face he leaned forward and touched the paper to the fire.

"Thanks." he said, then he leaned back and puffed, staring at the roof of the portico. "Pretty good party, don't you think?"

I let out a single laugh.

"Yes." I said. For what else could I say? I could add, "but for the mauling of your brother". When they put Jory in the ambulance he did look like he'd been attacked by a bear, but I didn't want to spoil Bart's day any more than it had been. Somewhere in there, he must be feeling sorrow. I lit my own cigarette.

"Do you think people will only remember Jory's accident?" He asked, in that childish doubting tone again. I was reminded of the terrible night Patrick had died.

"I don't think so. They looked like they enjoyed themselves afterward."

Which was perfectly true. The drunken revelry only escalated after Jory was taken away. Bart stood up on wobbling legs. He looked me up and down with a hazy smile on his face.

"You covered up your tattoos to please me didn't you?"

I half smiled and shrugged, looking at the ground. He returned to his cursed house, humming the tune from my song.


	22. Eye of the storm

Back in my room, I set about the daunting task of removing all my illusions of the night. I hadn't bothered to remove my dress with Yuri and he didn't seem to mind. Probably it was the dress and the makeup and the glitter that attracted him to me in the first place. The first thing to go was the mask. I looked like a raccoon without it, with dark patches of black shadow surrounding my eyes. Next the hair piece. I reached behind my head to snap off the long clip. I pulled it away and threw it in the discreetly placed trash can. I undid the pin securing my bangs and let them spill forward. When the complicated matter of the dress was complete, I hung the garment in my closet and I sighed for I felt ten pounds lighter. Studying my nakedness in the mirror, I saw the smudged spots where my tattoos peeked through. Angrily, they looked at me as if to say, I should never be ashamed of them. I silently assured them that such a thing would never happen again.

In the bath I ducked down into the water, massaging my sore scalp. No arabian princess here. Only Marceline.

I didn't wake up until after noon the next day. It took a few moments for me to remember the events from the night before.

Standing in the foyer, looking out at the trucks and the workers frantically rushing about to dismantle the party settings, so flawlessly put together, I felt clean. Like the money, the trappings, and the jewels no longer affected me. I was Marceline again. I stood in my jeans, my hemp beaded necklace, my black band tee shirt, my glasses, feeling very much the way I used to. I hadn't straightened my hair and had it twisted behind my head with a long braid hanging down over my shoulder.

I heard hard soled shoes tapping in the foyer. I turned from the windows and saw Bart taking the stairs two at a time. As he neared the top, I heard a faint voice, female, and soon I recognized Melodie's dulcet tones.

"BUT HE DOESN'T! HE DOESN'T!"

Bart stood stock still. Then he set off at a quick pace down the north wing, toward the anguished voice. I followed, though it was certainly not polite. What did I care, I was leaving. Besides why should he get to see what all the fuss was about?

Even hanging back in the corridor, unnoticed by Bart, I could hear every one of Cathy's biting words.

"-Think for one moment that you are the first wife and expectant mother to suddenly find the world crashing down around your head? You're not. I was expecting Jory when his father was in a fatal auto accident. Just be grateful Jory is alive."

"Perhaps death is what he'd prefer. Have you thought of that?" Melodies loud whisper was barely audible.

God! I thought she loved him! How could she say something like that? What could be worse than being dead?

"Then stay here and cry!" Cathy's voice cracked like a whip. "But I'm not going to leave my son alone to fight this out by himself."

All through Cathy's speech Melodie didn't utter a word. When she was finished, all was silent. Then-

"Tell him I'll come soon. Tell him that."

How could she refuse to see her own husband? The vow is "for better or worse", not "for better and if things get worse, I will not see you". If Jory were my husband I would have stayed with him until I was forcibly removed. Bart stalked out of sight as Cathy and Chris opened the bedroom door. I tried to look busy as they came down the hall, but having nothing up my sleeve, when they stopped in front of me, I merely said,

"I'm sorry, I just heard the commotion. How is he?"

Cathy sighed, and it was like her sigh contained within it many little sighs. One for Jory, for Bart, for Melodie, and one for herself.

"He's suffered a severe spinal fracture. He's paralyzed." Chris held Cathy closer to him.

I know my mouth fell open.

"Permenantly?"

"Yes."

"He's not...quadropeleagic?"

"Para."

I sat down heavily on a small chaise lounge in an alcove.

"How is he taking it?" I asked, though more out of lack of something else to say than actual curiosity. I already knew it was killing him. It would kill anybody, much less a man who made a living from the use of an exquisite body.

"Not well, but we'll do everything we can to bring him out of it."

As they began to walk past, something broke in me.

"Chris!" I called.

"What is it?" He said, appearing slightly perplexed.

"Can I talk to you? I mean when you have a minute."

"I have a few now. Darling go take a nap please, I can tell you haven't slept." He kissed Cathy's forehead tenderly, and she went on to her own room, looking back at us with that same little worried frown on her face.

Once Chris and I were sequestered in the music room, I sat down on one of the overstuffed leather chairs.

"Is this about what you said last night?" Chris asked.

Apparently Chris didn't miss a trick either. He was just more subtle in his tactics.

"Oh, well... I didn't know you caught that, but yes."

"It was a very strange thing for you to have said."

He was standing next to the piano, his arms folded across his chest, peering down at me frankly, as though nothing I said would be outrageous enough to faze him.

As I began my story, slowly he moved from a standing position to another chair. His expression didn't change much. He didn't gasp or show any sign that what I said was anything but believable. He only folded his hands and pressed two fingers to his lips. He frowned, as in deep thought; his eyes moved back and forth. It was as if he were imagining everything happening as I told it, and I rather thought he was weighing the possibilities in his mind.

When I finished, he crossed his legs and plucked at his sock absently. He finally drew in a breath and said,

"Well, I admit this is not my area of expertise. I don't know what to think. It does explain certain things, like how you came to read Cathy's books while you were here. It explains how you came to be here as a Princeton graduate. It explains why you look at your grandfather with open hatred. From what you're telling me, this is either a very elaborate lie, or that you are insane, or that we are all in very grave danger. I have to tell you, Marceline, you might have been better served telling my wife all this. She believes in living shadows, but for her sake, I'm glad you didn't tell her, and I don't think you should until we are far away from this house. Lord knows she's scared to death of this place already. I, on the other hand do not know what to believe. You seem very honest, and I don't believe you are lying to me. That would mean you are crazy, but I don't think you are. You're telling me all this with fear in your eyes because you know it sounds crazy. People who are truly mentally ill do not care if they sound crazy because they believe their delusions to be part of the natural world. I assume you're only telling me this now because of Jory's accident."

I nodded. He took another deep breath and stood.

"You might not have told us at all otherwise?"

I nodded again.

"I think for the time being, you should put these things out of your mind. They won't serve you now, and besides, if what you say is true, there's nothing we can do about it anyway."

"Okay." I wiped my eyes on my forearm.

He sighed.

"Don't look so sad. This doesn't change my veiw of you, Marceline. I'm beginning to think of you as a niece, and even if you were insane, you'd still be family."

He pulled me to my feet and hugged me.

"You'll stay with us, and you'll visit Jory, and you'll be one more person who loves him, and who helps him recover. Don't worry about Bart, he won't throw you out. He's all talk. Okay? Now go for a walk, clear your head, and later we'll all go visit Jory."

"Kay." I said meekly, not wanting to let go of the only person who really seemed to care.

So it was that I stayed in Foxworth Hall. Chris was quite right about Bart. He acted as though he never noticed me there, and I couldn't say I was unhappy with this. I went with Chris, Cathy, and Cindy to visit Jory, and I never said much during these initial visits. What could I say that had not been said? Jory just lay there, staring upward, lost within himself. Unaware of anything beyond his pain. Melodie refused to see Jory continually. Cathy pleaded, shouted, bribed, and begged, but Melodie was unresponsive, a hollow shell of who, what, she was before the accident. The only time I ever saw her behaving as she'd used to, was when Cathy was gone, and she was talking to Bart.

I decided to try a new tack with Jory about a month after his accident. The idea seemed futile, and I wasn't sure at all that it would work, for nothing else had. Instead of coming and forcing small talk around him, I went in, alone, with my Fender accoustic. It wasn't easy to catch him alone, for Cathy was constantly in there, sometimes with Chris and Cindy. I began to watch carefully from my patio the comings and goings of Foxworth Hall. Bart left frequently, returning late at night, careening into the house, sometimes even with scantily clad women. They were gone in cabs long before morning. One day Cathy, Chris, and Cindy were all at the newly built swimming pool. I was in my car, racing toward the hospital.

Jory lay, as in a coma, in the same slightly upright position that I'd last seen him in. His hair was longer and he had a deep shadow around his jaw. He looked like a wild man, straight from the trees. He no longer appeared the gazelle, but like a turtle on it's back with his cast like a hard shell around his chest. His eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. When I opened the door, he quickly closed them. I didn't say anything, I just pulled up the hard plastic chair and sat down like Adrian had so many months ago. This was the same hospital I'd had my stitches in. If Jory was going to act like a coma patient then I would treat him like a coma patient. If someone I loved was in a coma then I would play music for them every day, and in this way try to reach them from the deep abyss of their subconcious. With the guitar on my knee, I began to play a song that I thought I could sing well. It was Janis Joplin's "Me and Bobby Mcgee." I felt rather than saw Jory turn his head toward me. I kept my eyes closed for fear of what expression I would see on his face.

_"From the Kentucky coal mines, to the California Sun, _

_Yeah Bobby shared the secrets of my soul, _

_Through all kinds of weather,_

_Through everything we done,_

_Yeah Bobby baby, kept me from the cold world, _

_One day near Salinas Lord, _

_I let him slip away,_

_He's looking for that home and I hope he finds it!_

_But I'd trade all of my tomorrows_

_For one single yesterday_

_To be holding Bobby's body next to mine_

_Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose_

_Nothing, and that's all that Bobby left me,_

_But feeling good was easy Lord when he sang the blues_

_Hey feeling good was good enough for me_

_Good enough for me and my Bobby Mcgee. " _

Jory didn't make any sign that he'd heard me that day, or the next day, or the day after that, or any day that month. One day in the middle of a song, (Green Days' "Good Riddance") I stopped. Jory opened his eyes, but he didn't turn to look at me. I sighed, and I said,

"I don't know if I can do this any more. Every day I watch and I wait until you're alone so I can see you and play for you. I don't want to say all those words of comfort that must sound so hollow to you, so I thought I'd come and play, and show you in that way that there is still beauty in the world for you, but you don't respond, so I guess you really want to die."

Silence. I went on,

"My father died with a needle in his arm, just like yours. Whether he accidently overdosed, or did it to kill himself, I don't know. I don't _want_ to know. All I know is how much I missed him. I know now that my mother kept him away because of the drugs, but I...I cried all the time. You know what it's like when you see the other kids with their dads, you know how...how it feels. Well if you want to die, go right ahead. Everyone will be sad, in fact, everyones' hearts will be shattered, but you know what? Eventually, they'll go on. They'll miss you, but they'll live. I'll miss you, and I haven't even known you for three months, and I'll live too. I used to feel sorry for myself because I didn't have a father, but now I just feel sorry for him, because _he_ missed out on having _me_."

I was crying now.

"Your father missed out on knowing you, on knowing how wonderful you are. If you truly believe you won't be missing out on anything with your kid, then keep doing what you're doing, you'll die eventually, if you will youself to long enough. But if you have even an inkling that your child will be more splendid and glorious than you, maybe you should think about what you're _really_ gonna miss in life. _It's not dancing that's for damn sure_!"

I stood abruptly and took my wallet out of my pocket. I pulled out the picture of my father and baby Marceline. I flung it at him and whirled about to slam out of the room. Before the door banged shut, I saw a glimpse of Jory looking at me with his face twisted in pain. That was the last time I visited him in the hospital.

* * *

The very next day, Cathy reported that Jory had spoken to her at last. I don't know if I had anything to do with it, but they always came back with news that Jory was getting better after I'd had my final word. That Jory was beginning to accept his condition. A week or two later, Cathy was dragging Melodie toward the garage. I was sitting cross legged in the foyer, playing the guitar, when I held my wrist against the strings to watch.

"Come now, Melodie. It's not going to be that bad. He loves and needs you. Once you're there and he looks at you, you'll forget his legs are paralyzed. You'll instinctively say and do the right things. I know you will because you love him."

I snorted, and Melodie looked back at me with fire in her eyes. At that moment, Bart came stumbling into the house, his hair a mess, smelling like he had been sick to his stomach. He wobbled across the hall, then poured himself unceremoniously into a delicate chair. He focused his eyes on the world long enough to notice Cathy shuffling Melodie out of the door.

"Where yuh goin'?" He barked.

"To the hospital." Cathy said in an authoritative tone, eyeing Bart and apparently taking in his obvious intoxication. "And I think it's time you went to visit your brother again, Bart. Not tonight but tomorrow. Buy him a gift that will entertain him, he's going mad in there with nothing to do."

Disregarding his mother completely, he told Melodie that she didn't have to do anything his mother told her. Cathy responded by pushing Melodie on through the hallway leading to the garage. Bart followed, pitching forward.

"This is too much fun!" I said, and I laid my guitar aside. I ran to see what was going to happen next.

Bart stood in the garage. I could see him from the open doorway. He raised his hands and shouted,

"Don't worry Melodie! I'll save you!"

He made as if to run toward the car, but his liquor sodden legs gave way. He stumbled sideways and I heard a clatter. He must have fallen into the metal rack with extra motor oil, transmission fluid, and shine wax. The car roared off, tires squealing on the cement. I burst out laughing.

"Who is that?" Bart's words were jumbled. "Shaddup!"

I heard clanking that signified Bart was trying to stand. I turned to run back to my room, when Bart appeared in the doorway. He was gripping it with both hands to steady himself.

"You stupid bitch!" He yelled, spit flying. He stepped up onto the carpet, and my laughter died in my throat. I could outrun him, but I'd rather not get into a physical confrontation if I could avoid it. Then without any indication he was going to do so, he vomited. Brown glop spewed from his mouth, and then he fell, twisting sideways as he did. There was an awful squishing sound as he hit the floor. He groaned.

It was in my head to simply turn and walk away, but his moans were so pitiful that I only felt sorry for him. I picked him up by his shoulders, ignoring the puddle of sick. I began to drag him back into the foyer. He grunted and made faint attempts at struggling, as he drifted in and out of conciousness. It was slow work until Trevor happened upon me, and hurried over.

"Dear God, not again!" he said, clicking his tongue. "I am terribly sorry Miss."

Together we hauled him up to his fancy futuristic bedroom. We managed to sit him down, and I set about getting his smelly sodden jacket off.

"I've got him from here, Miss." Trevor said gently. "I'll have Magda get that spot on the carpet squared away."

Bart punctuated this with another moan.

"My head." His only words before his head slumped back over the chair.

"Try to get him to drink some water." I said.

"Straight away."

I left.

The days trickled by. Melodie no longer struggled so much when it came to visiting Jory. Cindy spread her pretty blue wings and flew off for summer camp. Joel hung about, trailing Bart during the day, and turning a blind eye to Bart's nightly activites. I languished in my room, I only swam in the pool when no one else was there, and I spent a good deal of time strolling the grounds, on smoking excursions. I went into town sometimes and hung out at a coffee shop, meeting a few local gifted artists. There were poetry readings every Saturday night.

I was coming back from one of these meetings when I saw that Bart's jaguar was in the garage. Very unusual for a Saturday. Chris and Cathy were gone, it was too late for them to be visiting Jory, so I assumed they'd gone to Richmond for the night. My mind was on putting a band together as I walked down the short, red carpeted hallway from the garage to the foyer. I'd met a talented drummer named Toby Sparks that night, and he'd expressed interest in starting a band. I stopped suddenly. I heard faint, strained voices in the foyer.

"-But Jory'll be home in two days!" I was beginning to know the distressed tones of Melodie very well.

"I don't care, I can't stop seeing you." It was Bart. He had a deep, dramatic edge to his voice. There was passion there, I could feel it's heat standing in the hallway. I crept forward. Peering around the corner, I saw Bart holding Melodie by her shoulders. His dark eyes were alight with burning desire, boring into limpid pools of violet blue ocean waves that rolled with fear and indecision.

"But I'm using you!" she cried, near tears. "You know I am!"

"So use me! Use me all the night, then leave! I don't care, don't you get it!? I would rather die tomorrow, then live for a hundred years without knowing what you've given me these past few weeks. I love you, Melodie!"

And he pressed his lips on hers. I thought she would struggle, I thought she would slap him, but she did nothing of the sort. Her slender white arms went about his shoulders and they embraced just like lovers in a romance novel. They ascended the stairs together, barely able to keep their hands from one another.

I should have been elated, for secrets, though abundant, don't stay secret for long in Foxworth Hall. When Jory found out about the two of them, it was sure to end their marriage. But really, their marriage had been over the moment Melodie found out he'd never dance with her again, she made that quite clear. It was clear to me at least. I should have been happy that Jory would be free for me. You see, even though he was paralyzed, I still felt something for him. I still saw the same kind of sensuous handsomeness in his face that I'd seen before. And I heard Cathy telling Melodie that Jory could gain back his sexual wiles later on. I knew that Jory would, for Jory was a creature of passion. I should have been glad that Melodie was turning away.

Instead I seethed inside, the flames coming to lick my throat. How could Melodie do this to him? She was kicking him when he was down, that's what the hell she was doing! Oh how Jory would hurt. It was hard to imagine him hurting even more than he was now. My feelings for Jory had changed since his accident, yes, it was true. It may have been lust before, when I was dazzled by Jorys' amazing body, and the way he used it, but now just to think of the pain he'd feel when he found out that the love of his life, his princess, his Juliet, was sleeping with his brother, was inconcieveable to me.

Finally the day came when Jory was to be brought home. It was Melodie and Cathy's time to be with him, so I sat on my patio, on the black iron bench I had put there. I was practicing guitar again, when I heard the sliding glass door open. Chris sat down next to me.

"Well we've got Jory all set." he said, staring peacefully off into the grounds.

"Mmm." I said, sighing through my nose.

"You know when I was clearing out Jory's room at the hospital, I found this under his pillow."

I watched, horrified, as he pulled the photograph I'd tossed at Jory out of his breast pocket. He held it out to me and I took it gingerly. He didn't prolong the moment, sensing as he always could, that I was embarassed. He stood to leave.

"You should go up and say hello."

* * *

_Was I imagining that she sent some silent warning to Bart-and he understood? Suddenly he was smiling, even if it was stiff. _

_"I'm glad you're back. Welcome home, Jory." He strode forward to clasp his brothers' hand. "If there's anything I can do, just let me know." _

_Then he left the room, and I was staring after him, wondering...Then-_

_"Hi, Jory. Looks like you made it." _

_Marceline was poking her head around the door. Her hair was casually styled in flowing ebony waves, and she was wearing her black rimmed glasses again. She was looking down her nose at him, a little knowing gleam in her eyes. What did that look mean? _

_"Hi, Marceline." He said, smiling. Then he nodded his head, looking down as if in irony. "Yes, I made it." _

_Their eyes locked for a long moment, then she was gone. _

_"Jory..." I said uneasily. "Is there...something going on between you two?" _

_He laughed. _

_"Oh, mom." He chided. "You and your ideas. Of course not. She just...gave me a wake up call, that's all." _

_I tried to make him elaborate, but he ordered me out, insisting on how tired he was. _


	23. A Strange and Most Exciting Evening

The long hot days of summer were finally over and I was enamored again with the swirling colors and bright leaves of autumn. The scent of burning leaves filled my nose, and the glorious wind came to lift my hair and my spirits. In mid October, I formed a band with Toby Sparks, and Mark Cadarette. Toby had long brown dreadlocks, green eyes and was a damn good drummer in my opinion. Perfect timing. Mark Cadarette was a lucky find, he could play base with such speed and accuracy it was astonishing. He had come to Virginia from French Canada to go to school. (His real name was Maurice, but he insisted that we call him something more American.) Mark had long black hair that he let fly when he was playing. Despite his pale skin and his large nose, he was quite vain, enjoying all the attention from the girls after a show. We couldn't find a lead singer, and we hadn't yet decided on what kind of music we would play, so while we worked on it, we did covers, and I sang on lead guitar. I had trepidations, the first time we played for the public, but the songs were all popular rock ballads from the last three decades, and the people in the bars and clubs were so drunk they would've danced to a toddler banging a tin can. It was great fun, and an exellent escape from Foxworth Hall.

* * *

I saw Jory often. I didn't press him for small talk, I mostly watched his television while he toiled away at his model ship. Though he didn't say much, he seemed to enjoy my company. One day, while I was flipping through channels, he said to me,

"There must be something you'd rather be doing."

"Nope." I said blithely. And that was the end of it.

Melodie came rarely, if ever, and always late in the day. Sometimes she came in the room while I was there. At first, she seemed amused, but by early November, she began to look at me with real annoyance.

"I'm here, you can go now, Marceline." she said imperiously. Like I was a servant, or a nursemaid. She had a lot of damn nerve when it came to me, but none when it came to Bart or Cathy. I wasn't threatening enough.

"How lovely to see you in here, Melodie." I said, throwing down the magazine I'd been reading to Jory.

Of course, she was still seeing Bart. Several times a week they joined in sexual congress. Jory being in the same house made little difference, not when he never left his bedroom. Bart popped in once in a while to say hello, as if to check that his elder brother was not using his wheelchair.

Poor Jory without his turtle shell looked so thin, so as a gift I bought him a set of weights, leaving them on his nightstand, where all his other gifts piled up every day. Sometimes I played music for him, and I told him about what crazy things my bandmates did after a gig at this bar or that one. Jory didn't want his stereo played, but he always let me come in and play for him. I became used to the house, and the ghosts that revealed themselves at night. Sometimes I even greeted them. If I felt like it was Malcolm, I would make a sarcastic remark. If I felt like it was Cory, I would say something sweet. If it was something darker, I tried to ignore it.

"God, Mark can be such a diva sometimes. He acts like we've already been signed. He nearly put his foot through an amp when he found out there wasn't bottled water backstage." I was saying to Jory one rainy day, and he laughed.

"Prima donnas." he said, rolling his eyes. He held a bottle of glue in his shapely hands, and he wore magnifying glasses, as he carefully put one piece of wood into another.

Just then Melodie entered the room with a sigh.

"I'm sorry Jory, I was feeling tired again this after-" she pulled up short at the sight of us, our smiles, our laughter. "Oh. Hello Marceline. You're here again."

This time, I couldn't stop myself.

"Why shouldn't I be here? Jory needs company once in a while. It's okay, we all know how _tired_ you are."

"_I'm_ his wife." she snarled.

"That's right Melodie, _you're his wife_." I said, shaking my head at her, not making any attempt to conceal my disgust.

* * *

Later that night, while reading in the foyer, I saw Cathy hurrying around, looking frantic. Her blonde, softly waved hair was disheveled, and I could hear little noises of frustration escaping her throat.

"What's wrong, Cathy?" I called to her,

"Oh, I'm just looking for something important that I've misplaced."

"You're looking for Melodie." I said blandly. She froze on the stairs, turned toward me slowly and began wringing her hands.

"Why do you say that?" she asked nervously.

"Because she just left with Bart." I said. The anger I'd felt toward Melodie all that day had been building up and I decided on the spot to out her to somebody.

"Oh." she said, feigning surprise. She knew, she knew!

"They're sleeping together." I said, turning back to my book. Slowly she began to come down the stairs, her heels tapping out an excecution drumroll. She fell into the seat next to me.

"I know."

And then she was crying quietly, reaching into her pocket for a handkerchief. She really was something, a living relic of the days when women walked around with handkerchiefs in their cleverly hidden dress pockets, and wore heels on a daily basis. She blew her nose, and then she choked,

"Oh, why did we ever come back here? Why does this house only give us misery?"

I put the book on a table.

"There's an answer to that question, Cathy, and I swear as soon as we leave here, you will have the answer."

She could only stare at me. She shook her head vaguely as if to clear away some little, dusty thought. She said,

"What am I going to tell Jory?"

"The truth can only hurt him now. Just tell him she's sleeping."

"You know he doesn't believe that anymore."

"It's better than the truth. He's too vulnerable right now to know it."

"I know you're right, but I just can't face him. We set up a table for the two of them to have a romantic evening tonight you know. I told him I was going to go get her. _Damn_ her! How could she do this to him?"

"Jory is a remarkable man. Melodie will remember that before the end. Come on," I said, getting to my feet. "I'll go with you."

Snail like, she rose to walk with me up the stairs.

In Jory's firelit room I was surprised to see Jory out of bed, shaved, smelling good. His beauty shined through, no longer a turtle. The roses, the champagne chilling in its perspiring ice bucket, the roaring glow of the fire making his blue eyes violet, like Liz Taylors', all made me feel fluttery again, as I had been when I first saw him.

His eyes were alight with hope when the door had opened, but the light flickered and went out when he saw that Melodie did not follow us. He asked where she was, and when no one said anything, he put his hand to his chin and bowed his head, his brow deeply furrowed.

"So she's not coming." he said flatly. "She never comes here anymore-at least not inside the room. She lingers in the doorway and speaks to me from a distance."

Then his voice broke into a thousand little pieces, and he cried. I was taken back to my childhood, when I listened to my grandmother talk to an old friend about a march during the Civil Rights movement that had been broken up by the police. They had used tear gas, dogs, and fire hoses. She said the worst thing had been the crying.

"It's a horrible thing," she said, "To hear grown men crying."

I never understood what she meant until now, for Jory's wracking sobs tore into the fleshy pulp of my soul. They took me deep into a bottomless well of sorrow, and I was left staring up at the light that seemed so far away for us up on the hill. Cathy fell to her knees and begged him to hold on to his love for life. When Jory stopped crying, I spoke thus,

"Jory, you look amazing tonight. I'm going to go put something nice on, and I'm going to have dinner with you."

He looked at me helplessly. Without waiting for a response, I hurried off.

When I returned, I was wearing a black sweater with an off the shoulder collar, nothing fancy, but formal enough. I had twisted my hair into a bun and left tendrils spilling down around my face and bangs. I'd put on purple eyeshadow, and a long dangling chain with a heart pendant. I seated myself across from Jory and waved Chris and Cathy away. Chris smiled, and I saw Cathy surreptitiously shoving the sharp objects with which Jory might hurt himself deeper into her pockets.

"I'll be back to help you into bed, Jory." Cathy's words from the doorway.

"I want to try it myself tonight, mom. If I can't, I'll call for you."

"All right darling." she sniffed. They were gone.

* * *

Jory pushed his food around, and stared moodily into the fire. I did my best to make conversation, but Jory would only nod or grunt. After fifteen minutes, I was exasperated. I poured the champagne liberally to put him more at ease, and tried to loosen him up by telling him stories and jokes, and asking him a few questions. But soon I began to think that "Jory at his ease" would be an impossible aim this night. He never gave me an answer of more than a single word. The romantic, intimate atmosphere seemed to wilt around us, like a time lapse photo book of a flower in a vase. Everything seemed to sink down toward the floor, just as melting ice cream spills over onto your hand. Dilligently I kept on my mission of getting that pained look off of Jory's face, but of course, it would have been easier to get a word or two from the grilled slab of meat on his plate. So at length I gave up and just chatted away about whatever I wanted, all this while I poured the champagne into his cup, which he held out almost gratefully. Finally, I patted my lips with my napkin, slammed my hand on the table, (he was visibly jolted) and said in an unaturally loud voice,

"Well, Jory, this has been a blast, let me tell you. No no, I couldn't stay a moment longer, but this has been SO much fun."

I stood up quickly and tossed my napkin on the table.

"I'm sorry." He said in a strangled tone. He looked hurt and bewildered at my sudden, caustic outburst.

"No, I'm sorry Jory. Sorry to have prolonged an evening you wanted to end two hours ago."

He let out his breath.

"No, I...I really do enjoy your company, but it's just..."

"It's just that I'm not Melodie." I could hear the bitter note in my voice.

He looked stricken, and pressed his lips together, staring up at me with such pain in his eyes, that my bitterness dissipated. All I had left to care for in the world was in those eyes, those dark blue eyes. The way they shined reminded me of foam floating on the clear ocean in the Gulf of Mexico or the Mediterranian. They called to me, begged me for mercy. This inspired me to coin for him a nickname.

"Don't look so distraught, Siren eyes."

He let out a dry sob.

"Why can't she love me now?"

He wasn't asking me, really. It was like he was asking God.

"I don't know, Jory."

He looked at me, devastated; in just the same way I had been devastated to find Eric's clothes gone. I went on,

"I don't know how any one could know you, and not love you."

I could hear Adrian's voice from far away, guiding me, telling me exactly what to say, exactly what Jory needed to hear. I walked to the other side of the table, and twisted the knob on Jory's chair, so that it hummed around to face me. I got down on my knees and looked him in the eye.

"You deserve to be loved, Jory. You are worthy of love that goes on even unto the ending of the known, observable universe, and beyond. If Melodie can't see it, it's _her_ problem, not yours."

He sniffed, turned his head away, set his jaw. I took his smooth chin in my hand and gently turned his head to face me.

"You are...elegant, Jory."

I thought again of kissing him, for it was the perfect moment. I had made it into a moment of serendipity, quite purposefully casting myself in the role Adrian had played once. But just as quickly as it came, it vanished, like a cloud of smoke. I stood to leave.

"Think about it." I said.

When I was at the door, Jory said something that struck me like a rock thrown at my back.

"I don't want to sleep alone."

"What did you say?" I could hardly believe that he would say such a thing to me. And yet I felt a rush of adrenaline. _Could it be? Is this the moment all over again?_

"I said, I hate sleeping alone. I hate not having someone to hold in the night."

"Oh..."

Close enough.

* * *

I looked at the clock. The red digital numbers beamed dully, five am. Jory lay with his head against my breast, breathing evenly. My fingers were in his hair, letting a single black lock curl and uncurl over the index. The slow expansion and compression of his lungs seemed to me, tatamount to the gentle rocking of a ship on a moonlit ocean. I leaned down to nuzzle my cheek against the soft thatch of curls. At that moment, Jory shifted slightly and buried his face deeper between the gentle slopes on my chest, locking his arms around my waist tighter. I sighed and felt my lips lift at the corners. I hadn't been able to fall asleep, for every few seconds my stomach rolled with excitement.

The house lay in deep silence. The wild winds of Autumn had ceased for a moment. I remembered Jory's expression as I helped him into pajamas, keeping my eyes above his waist. It had been hovering somewhere between bewilderment and gratefulness. I smiled more to think of his quickly stifled gasp when I took off my clothes, all but for my undergarments. I climbed into the narrow bed beside him and he flushed deeply. He hesitated, his eyes pointed to my collarbone. His blue satin pajama shirt I'd deliberately left open, and he hadn't closed it. I stared at his pectorals and flat stomach, with a few inches of hair in a fine line below his navel. He cleared his throat loudly, then reached to snap the lamp off. He haltingly put his arms around my waist, and shifted himself lower on the bed. With his head on my chest, he let out a sigh. At feeling the warmth of his breath on my chest, even without the promise of sex, my loins quivered.

"You smell good." Came a throaty murmur from my bosom.

"So do you." I said quietly.

He let out a soft laugh. For a moment, I felt the wetness of his lip on my bare skin, sending a ripple of pleasure down the length of my torso.

"Old Spice." he'd said.

He fell almost immeadiately to sleep, and for an hour or so, he caressed me with his cheek, moaning,

"Oh, Mel. Mel, I missed you."

I did my best to soothe him, brushing the top of his head with my lips, running my hand along the curve of his injured spine. It was almost like meditation, willing his neurotransmitters to reawaken. Soon he'd fallen into deep sleep, and I was left to wallow at last in all the sensations of holding his body against mine. It was equal to taking a deep drink after a long spell of thirst.

The sun began to peek over the mountains, staining the sky with a rim of dull glow. Thoughts came into my head, as though the sudden brightness had opened the door for them to enter. Natsy, nagging thoughts; about what would happen if someone were to discover me here, almost nude in Jory's bed. I imagined Joel's watery eyes narrowing in scorn, and Bart shouting, red in the face. I tried to push the images away, and get back to that place of peaceful dreaminess I'd just vacated, but like black flies clinging to the inside of my skull, they remained there, condeming me. I bit my lip. _What am I doing here?_

"I was wondering the same thing." came a terse whisper from the doorway.

Cathy stood in the shadows in a white dressing gown, her spine erect, shoulders taut, and her hands clenched into fists by her sides. Of course I hadn't realized I'd mumbled aloud.

I was amazed I'd managed not to jump when she'd spoken, but before I could offer a stuttering response, she whirled with a dancers' grace and she was gone.

As gently as I could, I tugged myself out of Jory's slack grip, inserting a fluffy pillow where my chest had been. My eyes were stinging with tears of humiliation and a fear that took wild flight into the far reaches of my soul. My heart fluttered and flailed in my chest like a baby bird faced with a hungry snake. I kept trying to recall the expression on her shadowed face. I imagined it was livid. I buttoned my jeans with trembling fingers, my mind racing. I became angry. Who was she to say that I shouldn't love Jory, comfort him? Melodie certainly didn't, and wasn't! For a few precious hours, the gaping, bloody wound that had been inside me seemed smaller. I wouldn't let her take that away from me. I wouldn't slink back to my room defeated, then face the awkwardness and Cathy's accusing icy glare in the morning.

Hell no. Not my style.

Without bothering to put my shoes on, I ran out of the room in stockinged feet. I flew down the halls like a fearsome spectere, without a sound. I came upon Cathy as she was turning the handle of her bedroom door, a clear glass of milk in her hand.

"Cathy." I panted, my voice coming out low and heavy.

She jumped violently and slopped milk out of the glass, clutching her heart with her other hand. She stared at me through the semi darkness, seemingly half mad, her eyes alive with terror, until slowly, slowly she recognized me. Only after a moment did she allow a faint look of contempt to cross her visage. Still gripping her chest, she said,

"What do you want? I have nothing to say to you."

Her voice, though it strived to sound imperious, still trembled. Her expression and her words stoked the fires in my belly.

"Well, _I have something to say to you_!" I said in a loud whisper.

Her hand hovered over the ornate brass doorknob, but she withdrew it. She clenched her lips into a thin ugly line, and she stalked to the door of her sitting room. She threw open the door with such force, I heard it bang into the wall on the other side. A light snapped on. I followed her into the room, which accomadated the Swan Room's pink and gold, and ornate femininity.

Cathy set her milk onto the glass coffee table with a loud clink. I walked slowly to the white couch and sat down comfortably, leaning backward and placing one arm on the high back. She clicked her tongue, and I saw a muscle working in her jaw. She folded her arms and sat down on the loveseat opposite me, her limbs screwed so tightly together, I wondered how long it would take her to unwind herself.

"Speak." she said, staring angrily at the wall.

"Jory needs someone, Cathy." I tried to keep the edge out of my voice.

"He needs Melodie." she stated defiantly, darting me a look of pure venom.

"Melodie is gone, Cathy!" I cried desperately. "She was gone the moment she knew Jory couldn't dance anymore!"

"She'll come back! I spoke to her tonight, as a matter of fact!"

"And what? She said she'd stop screwing Bart?"

She turned to glare at me for using the word "screwing".

"Yes, she did." Cathy said staunchly.

"And you believe that?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.

"Yes." she said defiantly, but again she looked away, betraying herself with a slight shift of her eyes.

"Cathy." I spoke her name softly, kindly.

* * *

_Against my will, I turned to look at her. She sat on my couch, leaning toward me with a knowing gleam in her eyes so bright; trying to coax me to the truth I didn't want to see. I let a sigh escape my throat. She raised her mouth crookedly, and leaned back. As I stared at her, I kept seeing her lying on the bed with my firstborn son, her cousin, half naked, stroking his sleeping form longingly. She seemed a child playing an adults' game, and I was bitterly reminded of myself. I said,_

_"You don't know what you're doing, Marceline. You think that Jory can fill the void in your life, but you have no idea what-what-an incestuous-relationship can do to you. To your life."_

_"But I do." she said sharply, flexing her long fingers over the rim of the couch. "You told me all about it, Cathy."_

_"It's different with Chris and me!" I said hotly. "We were forced toward each other! You and Jory aren't locked up together, and-"_

_"-Aren't we?" She sat up straighter. "This house is as good as jail isn't it? Are we not isolated up here on the hill, us Foxworths? Don't deny it!" she said quickly, when I opened my mouth to protest. "You know it deep down in your heart, we are all trapped here."_

_"You're a child, you don't know what the world can be like when you go against its' laws! Don't you realize how many people you affect with your actions? Don't be like us, Marceline! Look at all the harm it caused us, and all the harm it's caused Bart! It can't continiue Marceline, it must end!"_

_"You can't stop me!" she said, just like a teenager denied privelages. "Jory needs someone, a woman, who can give him what Melodie doesn't! Why can't it be me, Cathy?" Now she was pleading with me._

_"Because you need Jory more than he needs you!" I fired._

_She stood up quickly, appearing terrified and angry. She backed toward the door._

_"You can't stop me." she repeated._

_"Chris would agree with me." I said, though I wasn't sure he would._

_"You're not going to tell him. You're not going to tell anyone. There's too much scandal around here already."_

_No doubt she was right. She turned the handle behind her back and slid out of the room. Staring at me as though I might hurt her if she remained in my sitting room. _

* * *

I closed the door with a soft, metallic, clicking noise, feeling something awful in my gut. It was as though a puddle of green ooze had erupted there, making me feel, oh, I don't know, a mixture of things I guess. Shame, guilt, the usual suspects. Still, Jory had been with me for a few astounding hours. It wasn't hope that filled me exactly. It was more like a pleasing kind of sickness. I mean to say, if one experiences an evening more exciting than any in one's life, you're sad to see it end, but you still feel grateful that it happened.

Something else happened at that moment. Something that still sends cadaverous chills up my spine to think of it. The first _thing_ to happen to me since I returned to Foxworth Hall.

It was over in an instant, but it left me shaking. There came a rushing sound from the hallway, and then it was as if an invisible hand closed around my throat. Or maybe it was like the air had been sucked out of my lungs. I fell to the floor, choking and gasping, and I caught a snatch of that harrowing cold laughter, which dissipated into a faint echo, and was gone.


End file.
